Paper Faces
by FaylinnNorse
Summary: He was supposed to be the conquering hero. She was supposed to become the best fire dancer alive. Things are not always as they seem. Cinderella, retold.
1. Chapter 1

_These Defining Moments_

Afterward, what she recalled most clearly was the scent of burning roses. The sweet, airy perfume intermingled with smoke and heat and _burning._ Occasionally, the idea struck her as tragically romantic, but mostly it made her want to scream until her throat was too raw to scream anymore, and then all she could do was cry.

It had begun as a perfect day. The war in Aschare, the raging battles meant nothing to her. And none of her stepmother's orders, her cruelty or Blair and Adelle's sneering had bothered her either, because they simply didn't matter.

There was only one thing that mattered on that day: she, Madeleine Lisette Luck, was the best fire dancer alive, and after that day, she would be equal with the best that ever was. White Flame, the hottest color, highest level, was the woman's name to the public. She was the only fire dancer to ever reach white, but she'd been dead for years, almost as long as Madeleine had been alive.

The day should have been perfect.

She stood in Madame Clarisse's tent, at the north end of the village, where it was set up for Autumn Festival. In the center of the tent was the plain wooden table spread with a blanket of roses. There were the deep red ones, bright orange and yellow, scattered blues, and one single white rose, to be hers if her dance was without flaw.

The others girls dashed about, none of them quite looking at her as they passed carefully around her. They didn't speak to her, and she didn't speak to them. She didn't mind. They were all so giddy, so brainless. She alone remained calm and reserved. She didn't need their friendly conversation. She had herself; that was enough.

She watched them though, as they talked to each other, whispering excitedly and giggling as they scrunched curled hair, pinning their roses on skirts of all colors. She glanced down at her own plainer dress, a simple gray, blackened with soot at the bottom.

Most of the girls wore their level of skill in their dress as well as their roses. The lesser ones had plain red, then orange, followed by yellow and blue...and white, though no one wore white. She should have worn a blue dress, but she had none. It didn't bother her though, she told herself, raising her head high. The people loved her in plain gray. They had a name for her—Cinderella—and they cheered whenever her dance began.

At last, the other girls went: reds first, then oranges, yellows, and the ones who had just reached blue. Madeleine had reached blue long ago.

When the last of them had gone, she moved slowly to the table, strewn with green leaves and parts of stems, fallen petals in their myriad of dyed colors. Patiently, she gathered her own roses and the pins that were left for her. She picked up her coarse gray skirt and first pinned the red roses, smiling as she recalled her first, clumsy dances as a fire dancer, then the orange as she built skill. At yellow, she was better still, and at blue—her fingers lingered on the calming, silky petals, then slipped downward abruptly.

She winced as the pin stabbed into her thumb. The drop of blood was a brilliant red, like a rose bud on her finger, beautiful. But pain wasn't beautiful, she reminded herself and wiped away the blood, returning to pinning the blue rose on her skirt.

Finally finished, she looked at the lone white rose still on the table. It was so pure in its lack of color or blemish. To think, only that one woman had ever worn a white rose as she danced! Madeleine wanted it, more than she'd ever wanted anything. She wanted the white rose and the white dress that would come with it, the sparkling mask, and the glass shoes (it was rumored that White Flame wore glass slippers, though Madeleine had always found this idea ridiculous—how could one walk, let alone dance, in slippers that could shatter beneath one's feet?).

If it was possible in any way, she wanted it. She wanted to be the best, and she wanted everything that came with it. She would go touring across Wyndl, dancing in every village, and people would chant and shout her name, and she'd wake up in the morning on a bed with soft pillows and clean white sheets, and she'd eat seven course meals every day and wear jewels and silks and satins, and no one would think her spoiled or haughty. Whenever they saw her passing by, they'd simply say to themselves, "Well, there's Lady (for they would call her by her rightful title) Madeleine Lisette Luck, the new White Flame. She deserves all she has now; after all, she is the best fire dancer in the world." And then they'd turn away and go about their business.

And she would have suitors, of course, calling on her at all hours of the day, and she could stick up her nose and turn away, or she could let them come, if she liked them well enough. They'd dote on her, of course, because she'd be...like a princess. No one would think to order her about, or to make her work from sunup to after sundown! No one would control what she did. She'd control what other people did! She'd have hundreds of servants, and they'd do everything for her. She'd never lift a finger...except for the dancing, of course.

She would practice dancing every day of her life and never let up on it. She'd be able to practice whenever she wanted to, not just in the middle of the night after her chores were done. Though, she might still practice in the middle of the night, when she wanted. There was something to dancing in a pitch black land, under the darkened sky, when she couldn't see anything, and there was nothing but her and the glowing fire. Somehow, the leaping flames brought her to life; the vibrant color made her spin and twirl and _feel_, like she'd never felt before.

She made her way to the mirror then, at the far end of the tent. She had to do this, and if she was really going to be the best, she had to look the best too. She observed herself carefully. Her hair fell in gentle waves, and if it was slightly tangled...well, that was just the way her hair was. Her eyes, peeking out from the cloth mask, were...well, plain and gray, but today they _almost_ looked blue, and...well, if her fingernails were filthy and her skin was too freckled and her arms too muscled for a lady, then..._so what_, she was still the best fire dancer in the world!

And besides, her roses were pinned perfectly, cascading gently down her skirt in their colors like a rainbow. She had more roses than any of the other girls. She'd worked harder than they had. No matter how much better their appearances were than hers, when she stepped into the fires, she had more grace than all of them. They couldn't take that from her. Nobody could. She straightened herself to her full height and glanced at the white rose on the table, smiling slowly. _The next White Flame._

She heard footsteps then and the sound of the curtain-like tent opening being pushed to the side. Turning quickly, she spotted Madame Clarisse coming slowly towards her, carrying herself like a belle as always. In truth, she was a middle-aged woman, past her time, with hair much more gray than blonde and skin that was beginning to wrinkle and sag, but she didn't seem to notice as she walked with grace and a head held high.

Madeleine bent into a low curtsy at the sight of the older woman, as all the girls did. They respected her, even as they giggled at how she still wore a corset at her age. Even so, she had an elegance they all wished to acquire. "Madame," she said, as she began to straighten.

The woman gave a slow smile. "Madeleine," she began in a voice barely above a whisper, the way she told the girls a lady ought always to talk. "You look lovely," she said, pale eyelashes swooping downward as she looked over Madeleine's hair, dress, roses, everything. Nothing escaped Madame Clarisse's notice. "Are you ready to begin your dance?"

Madeleine nodded without a moment's hesitation. She knew her dance forward and backward and could probably do it with her eyes closed. She'd spent weeks practicing it, tweaking it, perfecting it. And it _was_ perfect. It was harder than any she'd done and more dangerous, with many leaps and twirls over the flames, but she could do it.

"Good," Madame Clarisse replied, with another small smile gracing her lips. She took a few more dainty steps toward Madeleine, until she stood directly in front of her, not a full foot away. She gazed at Madeleine keenly, squinting into her face.

"Madame?" Madeleine asked awkwardly after a moment.

"Breathe, Madeleine. Remember that. And don't just do the steps, let yourself feel the dance, live the dance." She closed her eyes, pale lashes brushing her equally pale cheek, and she raised her arms slightly, swaying, lost in a reverie. Then, abruptly, she stopped, eyes flashing open. "And remember, overconfidence is as bad as underconfidence. This dance is not a sum of your previous triumphs. It is its own circumstance and must be regarded with proper humility as well as courage."

"Yes, Madame," Madeleine replied. That was really the only thing anyone said to Madame Clarisse. She was a lady, and her morals and etiquette were not to be contradicted. Even so, Madeleine didn't entirely see the woman's point. There was nothing wrong with confidence. She'd seen what the lack of it did to the girls who cried and ran from the fire in fear just before a performance. She didn't fear the fire. It didn't hurt her, had never hurt her. Nothing could hurt her.

Madame Clarisse watched her for another long moment, pale blue eyes staring intently into Madeleine's own. Finally, she nodded and turned away, facing the table. She reached out slender fingers and picked up the white rose, twirling the stem in her fingers, making the bud a blur of white. "It will be yours, if you pass," she said quietly, looking at Madeleine meaningfully.

Madeleine nodded. "I know." She looked at it and could almost feel it, the silky petals, the green stem, sharp thorns. The thorns wouldn't make a difference to her; if she could just grasp the rose in her hand, she could do anything.

Clarisse gave another of her gentle smiles, like a gracious host, and set the rose back down upon the table. Just then, there was a thunderous cheering from outside, a massive crowd roaring their appreciation. Clarisse looked toward Madeleine, raising a brow. "That would be the end of the dance. Only you remain. Go when you are ready." With that, she turned and proceeded out of tent, taking tiny, elegant steps and passing out the back opening.

Madeleine watched her go, then moved towards the front end of the tent, the opening where crowds of people would be waiting for her, ready to watch Cinderella perform her defining dance. She waited there for a moment, then took a deep breath, and straightened. The crowd would cheer for her, louder than they had ever cheered. And she would dance for them, like she had never danced. And she would reach white and have that rose pinned to her, because she had the most grace, the most will to do this. She was the best.

Bracing herself, she picked up the staff that was leaning against the table with the twine tied securely on both ends. Gripping the wood tightly, she threw back the tent opening and stepped out. A sea of faces met her outside, watching her in a half-ring around the area, opposite from the tent. It looked like everyone from Saimes had shown up and probably many from surrounding villages as well. They were all silent, just watching her, a thousand shades of eyes staring, fixed on her.

Someone coughed in the crowd, and she took a step towards the flames. Five distinct fires blazed in front of her, four of them surrounding a larger one close to the center. She went towards the first one to her left, dipping the end of her staff into the flames. The twine ignited slowly, the spindly ends first glowing a dim red, then a brighter orange until the entire thing was a blazing fire. Quickly, she whipped her staff around and dipped the other end into the fire. She watched as the fire slowly spread and leapt to life.

Finally satisfied with the fire at both ends of her staff, she prepared herself to dance. She closed her eyes, shutting out the world until it was only her alone in the darkness. The fire burned brightly around her, willing her, _begging_ her, to dance. She knew all the steps. She opened her eyes—and twirled.

She breathed woodsmoke as she reeled right, raising her staff above her head, towards the sky, where she sent it spinning in her hands until it became a circle of flame. The crowd to all three sides of her began to blur into nothing. It was only her and the fire, and she was whirling around it, round and round.

Finally, she stopped her turns and made waltz steps around the second fire—down, up, up, down, up, up—while the flames rose and fell to match her. Trailing flames burned between this fire and the others. They parted to let her pass as she waved her staff in swirling figures at her side.

Then she spun and leapt over the third fire. Her staff was blazed in front of her. She could feel the warmth beneath her feet as she soared through the air, hoping—knowing she would reach the other side.

In a low lunge, she landed, head bowed forward, straight arms holding out the staff. She paused, breathing in smoke, relishing the warmth of the fire. The fire made her live. She took a long, deep breath and spun again, twisting her body across itself as she revolved around the next fire.

Her feet moved of their own accord, propelling her forward into another turn, where all she could see was a blur of orange and red. And her feet pushed her off the ground, sent her flying through the air, over the fires, over the world. Her arms moved her staff, the bright fire a streak through the air that sparkled for a moment, then died in the air.

She moved through heat that made sweat bead on her forehead and pour down her face and down her back until she was drenched in it. She moved through thick gray smoke that burnt her eyes and choked in her throat, but she loved it all. This was what she lived for.

From somewhere far away, she heard a crowd chanting a name: Cinderella, Cinderella! It was dull roar in her ears, gradually becoming louder and louder like galloping horses pounding towards her. She reached out in a low arabesque, arching her entire body. She felt her back stretching as her leg extended high above her head, toes pointing to the sky. Her face tilted upward, breathing the air up there, and her arms lifted, spinning her staff in blazing circles just above her toes, nearly touching them with the burning ends.

Stepping again, she weaved around each of the fires until she reached the end of the line for her finish. She made another arabesque there, curving herself away from the fires. Then slowly, she brought her leg down from the air. When it hit the ground, she slid the other swiftly towards it, took one step, and propelled herself over the fire, spinning around as she flew through the air.

She could hear their cheering loud and clear now. They were cheering for her, because she was graceful, because they loved her. As she landed, she slid forward on the ground again, with her opposite foot this time, and took another small step and threw herself over the next fire. The flames leaped wildly beneath her as the crowd's roars took on another level of noise, rushing towards her.

She landed equally smooth, but not quite as far from the first fire as she had intended. She extended her leg out far and took an extra long slide this time, pushing her whole body forward. On her next leap, she extended the staff out in front of her and spun it in small circles crossing over in front of her. In the air, the flames formed joined rings, connected to each other, connected to her. When she leaped again, she made the circles high above her sky, orange and yellow arches blazing above her.

She made a sharp gasp when she landed. Her ankles were too warm beneath her, like they'd been singed. She stayed her ground, though. Readjusting herself would be a flaw in her performance, and she could not have flaws. She allowed herself a small glance down, however, and saw a trail of flames between this and the last fire, a swirling line between them. She wasn't in the fire yet, wasn't burning, but she was close. She would just have to get away fast.

Gliding forward, she stared ahead at the flames high and blazing like a wall of red and orange and yellow and _white_ fire, and it looked too long and too high, but she had already leapt. She was going to make it. She had to make it. She swung her staff out directly in front of her and formed a hoop of fire she passed through just before it disappeared. She could hear their cheering _Cinderella, Cinderella,_ louder than ever but suddenly it died away into silence. Why weren't they cheering anymore?

She knew she was off balance; the weight of the staff had thrown her off, and—she made a muffled cry, because her foot, it was hot—too hot, and—and she was falling this time, not landing. Her feet felt hot, burning hot, and they smacked hard against the ground at her angles, and from there she tumbled farther, a crumpled heap on the ground.

Suddenly, she feared the flames like she had never feared them, because they were hurting her, hurting so bad! It burnt at her skin, hot, raging flames tearing her into pieces. She heard gasping and shouting all around her, but it blurred into the—scorching, melting heat. She could see all the colors, and she had roses for each of them. The red and orange and yellow and...blue, that was her color, and...white. She should have been white. She was going to be white, but she was—burning.

"Isn't that—isn't that Miss Madeleine Luck?" she heard a confused, shrieking voice from the crowd.

She knew then that her mask must have come off. Whether it had burnt off or simply fell, she couldn't tell. She wanted to scream back at them, "No, it's _Lady_ Madeleine Lisette Luck!" but she couldn't, because it hurt so much—even her throat felt like it was burning. She managed to roll, staring up at the crowd, the sea of faces she'd listened to for cheering but never even looked at. They seemed closer now—and she wished that someone, anyone, would come pull her out of the fire, beat out the flames, douse her with water, _something_. Anything to stop the pain. But they were too afraid of the fire. _She_ wasn't afraid. The fire wouldn't hurt her, could never hurt her, only...the pain...

She saw people, so many people, blurred faces she didn't recognize. But there was one face, one face she knew—far too well. He was her father—Lord Arthur Luck of Pennyshire, where she lived with her stepmother and—and her stepsisters. Where he'd lived too! Her father.

He—he was right here, and she wanted scream at him, but it hurt too much to scream, and...and he wouldn't even come to pull her out of the fire. It was searing her flesh like so many pins and needles stabbing into her and—and the smell! She didn't know what it was, but it...it was...her head throbbed dully. Her own flesh was burning, and she choked on the smell and the smoke, and—

He was supposed to be in Aschare, fighting in the war. He'd told them—her and Edith and Blair and Adelle—that he was going away to fight in the war! He'd been going back and forth, helping in the efforts, but five months ago he'd said he was going to stay for a longer time, to help as a real soldier, because—because they were dying, all of them, and...she was shaking, her lip first and then her shoulders, all of her was shaking in violent tremors, and it hurt.

He'd—he'd abandoned them all and her most of all. She was his daughter, and he'd left her, and if he'd ever done anything in the war at all, he'd deserted! He'd lied to her, deceived them all, and probably fled the war like a coward, and...and maybe that was all she was made up of; maybe it was a failing streak in the family, because...she was going to be White Flame. And now, she was nothing, and everyone knew, and everyone saw her. She had failed—at everything.

And then, as she rolled in on her side, curling into a ball, there was the scent of roses. Sweet, fragrant roses. Burning. Her shaking stilled as she focused purely on the roses and the ashes, mingling together into one strange scent. The world began to slowly grow black.

* * *

Looking back, what he determined more than anything else was that war really was hell. Everyone said it—not on the front lines of course, not charging into battles, or shouting inspiring speeches. Those sort of things had their own phrases: "Victory or death!" "To die for one's country is to live forever!" "For glory and battle!" Those were the things people shouted to chase away the fear gnawing at their brains.

But in the real thing, in all of the sweat and the blood and the dirt, it was simply a muttered, under-the-breath, "War is hell." Those were the moments they watched their friends and comrades dying around them, and they turned to see their battle standards and thought traitorously: maybe it's not worth it. That was when they realized that no matter what standard they fought under, no matter what country they were battling for, war was all the same. It was blood and death and smells and rotting flesh. It was hell.

He supposed it was these moments that turned men against each other, made traitors of them all, sent brothers murdering brothers. And that was when he would gulp and turn the thought from his mind completely, focusing instead on the weather, the seasons, any sort of small talk he could rack from his brain. But then, if his mind ever returned to the subject, he would wonder how—and why—his life had ever turned out like this. It shouldn't have.

At twenty-one, Prince Ivan Glorodell of Wyndl was in battle against the Ascharans. He felt, sometimes, that his whole life had simply been one giant battle against the Ascharans. It was, more or less, all he ever did.

The Great Ascharan Invasion, sixteen years prior, had been the singularly most interesting event in everyone's lives since...well, no one really knew how long. The Wyndlans and the Ascharans had hated each other as long as anyone could remember, but the Invasion was the monumental happening, the one moment that defined everything else. Suddenly, the hate between them wasn't an old grudge, wasn't a prejudiced dislike. It was war.

Ivan remembered that day, more than he remembered the rest of his childhood. Most of what he recalled was dashing beneath high wooden tables with Thaddeus, but this day was different. He and Thaddeus were playing war in the courtyard—his brother had been just about to stab him through when a man with a bright red face came leaping over the bushes just behind them on the back of a dappled gray horse.

The man only stopped long enough to give Ivan and Thaddeus a small smile as he passed. Then he delivered the message to their father, King Nicholas: the Ascharan generals Bede, Caedmon, and Gratian had decimated the city of Bellen, near the border. General Bede's actions haunted Ivan's nightmares for years. He was a great brute of a man, who lived only to kill—trained for it since he was even younger than Ivan and Thaddeus. He burnt cities to the ground, slaughtered every man, woman, and child.

The Ascharans had taken the city of Goel as well, the home of Lieutenant Wescott who'd ridden with the news. Ivan recalled him as being tall, with an easy smile, and an obviously brave man, if for no other reason than the way he rode his horse, like he was chased by death itself.

King Nicholas called on his people for support—and war. Ivan recalled sitting beside him, a bit tiredly, mounted on a pony as his father shouted speeches he didn't quite understand, always about honor and glory and defending their homeland. Men joined the army, more and more, until one day King Nicholas took Ivan and Thaddeus, very seriously, and told them that he would have to go away and fight to protect them from the Ascharans. He would miss them, but he would come back as soon as he could. First, though, they would take a journey together, to the summer palace, Falos, where the boys would stay with their mother.

The journey through tall, dark forests was exciting for both Ivan and Thaddeus. On their ponies, they could almost keep up with the rest of the army, and they rode next to Lieutenant Wescott most of the way. He told them jokes and taught them basic fighting techniques and made them laugh when he climbed every tree they stopped beside.

But then, a mere couple of miles from Falos, Wescott's tree climbing showed him something other than blue sky and soaring birds. He shouted the warning: General Caedmon's army was approaching. Ivan and Thaddeus were sent on to Falos with the queen for safety, but they weren't safe there.

Ivan remembered his mother's piercing shrieks as the guards that were supposed to protect them were shot down beside them. He'd never seen a dead body before. They were so still, and there was so much blood flowing from their wounds. He'd never seen so much blood.

Queen Sidonie grabbed both Thaddeus and him and ran, not towards Falos, but back towards the army. They were protected back at the battlesite, even if the sights and sounds there were things a child should never see.

In the end, the Ascharans left to recover and regroup. The Wyndlans examined their home. Falos itself had been burnt and ransacked, almost completely destroyed.

From there, the king made his decision. He would take his wife and two sons south. All of Wyndl would join in the war campaign. He made several more speeches about freedom and protection and joining together as one.

After that, everything was simply "the war." They traveled; they were always traveling chasing General Bede and General Gratian as they moved farther into Wyndl. While the army fought battles, Ivan and Thaddeus stayed comfortably in the nearest town, playing out their own version of the war.

Ivan was always Wescott, the man who took his scouts through the dense forests and marshes of southern Wyndl, who destroyed entire Ascharan forces by stealth. They watched him rise from lieutenant to captain to colonel and finally general. Both boys admired the man, but it was Ivan's right to play him. He was born first, if only by two minutes.

Thaddeus usually played another man, one they'd never met but heard many stories of from the north. His name was Captain Raines. He'd refused to come south with the rest of the army, but fought in the north, where General Caedmon still lurked. He was a good match for Caedmon, killing in the woods and while the Ascharans slept at night, or raining arrows on them as a greeting in the early morning hours. He won his first open victory at Imdrel and from there kept on, forcing Caedmon backward at Vels and Nailam and finally Falos.

The final battle for Wyndl was fought in Goel, where it had begun. It was a hard battle, as both sides threw everything they had into the fight. In the end, the Ascharans were pushed back into their own country, but at a hard price for the Wyndlans. Nearly a quarter of their army was dead—and the Ascharans were not quite defeated.

It was during the Border Wars that Ivan and Thaddeus learned how to ride with a weapon, strategize, and kill.

Of course, they spent the early years watching and hearing news by word of mouth. Captain Raines was made a general, something Thaddeus told Ivan as soon as he found out and wouldn't let up speaking of for almost two weeks afterward. He'd always been robbed of playing General Wescott, but now Captain Raines had taken a step up. His smugness eventually let to an all out brawl, in which both of them ended up with sore black eyes.

For years, no progress at all was seen by the army. They merely traveled up the river, over the border, and back again. Then, General Wescott and General Raines started strategizing together. They got their men to Venturi and Traste in the Tul Mountains, a few of them made it halfway to Dryksm in central Aschare—but there they were cut down and tortured.

Thankfully, there were younger men to take up the fighting then, Ivan and Thaddeus among them. They fought their first battle at each other's backs in Goel, shouting comments about General Wescott and Raines and the three Ascharan generals, and who fought the most like whom. They fought well together; all the new recruits fought well together. Once again, the war began to turn in favor of the Wyndlans.

A younger General Fenn was in command of much the army now. He was popular with everyone and had a strategic mind matching Wescott, Raines, and the king. He came up with the idea of positioning the men in a half circle around the Ascharans, trying to surround them and obliterate them forever.

The Wyndlans pushed east, and in time, all battles were fought in the Tul Mountain passes, inside the Ascharan border. Still, they stayed in the border for long afterward, killing a hundred men on this side of the mountain, three hundred over there, until it had become almost mindless.

Often, Ivan grew tired of it. He grew sick of battles and training and shrieks of death, death, and so much death. Sometimes he even told Thaddeus that he hated it. Thaddeus only crossed his arms over his chest and said with a smirk, "And what would you rather do? Herd sheep? You can't know you hate it when you've never done anything else."

He would sigh then and realize that Thaddeus was right. And he would realize it again when Thaddeus killed the man ready to attack him from behind, and again when Thaddeus kept him up laughing the night before a big battle, to keep their minds from it, and again when they shared a tarp in the middle of a heavy rainstorm. Because Thaddeus was always right, until one day when he wasn't.

It was autumn, mid-autumn that blended into summer. The wind was strong, blowing through his coarse clothing and worn armor. He shivered once as the air fell sharp against his skin, then recovered. He was still warm. The sun was bright overhead—glaring when he glanced up—and his forehead was hot. And sticky.

He raised his hand to his head, and when he brought it away there was warm, wet blood on his fingertips. He stared at it for a moment, then let his hand fall flat to his side again. It was no surprise. There was blood everywhere. Scarlet, crimson, deep red blood—everywhere he looked.

He glanced at the field around him. It was utterly barren. Not one green thing lived amidst the trampled mud—and bodies. There were few men left standing around him now. He could hear a faint sound of clanging metal swords, like the ringing of a distant bell. He saw the movement in the corners of his eyes, but all at his feet were the pale, unnaturally still bodies, their blood mingling with the mud they were lying in, until it was all a blur of russet brown.

His eyes caught something else, almost a golden glow falling through the air toward him. He looked up and spotted them: leaves, yellow maple leaves blowing in the wind. They whirred and spun in the air, floating in wild spirals toward the ground, where they landed, rustling, on the dead.

Then, abruptly, he saw movement beside him, heard the sound of a blade cutting through the air. He flung his sword up and blocked the attack. He saw the eyes of the Ascharan soldier in front of him widen for a moment, as he forced his own attack lower. His blade caught the man right above his hip, slicing through his torso, almost to his opposite shoulder. The man fell limp to the ground in front of him. He had pale gray eyes. Without thinking, Ivan planted his boot in the man's chest and pulled out the blade.

He turned then, glancing farther around him to see that the Glorodell battle standard was still in the air, raised high on its wooden pole. The gold and silver threads stood out from the green, forming the shining shield and star. It was caked with mud, however, many dark brown splotches tainting the once bright colors.

He heard the sound of another sword swinging from his other side and whirled around, raising his own blade to block once again. The two blades clanked together and bounced backward, metal ringing into the air around them. He was the first to recover, lunging forward to make a quick stab and move on. He knew they were winning the battle, and he wanted to get it done as quickly as possible.

His attacker, however, made a quick jump to the side, moving just out of the way. The maneuver, oddly, reminded him of his brother. Thaddeus had a talent for moving quickly, one that Ivan had found most aggravating in sparring. After considering a moment, he stepped again and made another attack, but the man jumped to the other side this time. Then, finally, the man made his own attack, leaping at Ivan and swinging his sword for his neck. As he came forward, Ivan got a clear look at his face and reeled backward, shocked.

He knew those features, knew them as well as he knew his own face. It practically was his own face. Lighter hair, a squarer jaw, higher bridged nose, but that was it! They had the same color eyes, the same dimple on their chins. He was staring at Thaddeus, his twin brother.

Ivan probably would have stopped fighting altogether, had the man not spun around and attacked him from the other side. Ivan turned, blocking frantically as Thaddeus's attacks grew more rapid and more brutal. "Thaddeus!" he screamed as he tumbled backward. "It's me! It's Ivan!"

His brother must not have recognized him. It was difficult after all, since most of them had lost whatever uniform they might once have had, and both Ascharans and Wyndlans alike were caked in dirt and blood. They all looked more or less the same. He hadn't even realized it was Thaddeus at first. But his brother's eyes were locked on him, unmoving from his face. "Thaddeus!" he shouted again, now forcing his way forward, pushing his brother back.

Thaddeus seemed to look at him then—really look at him, as someone he knew and not merely one of the hundreds of men he'd killed on the battlefield. His jaw twitched slightly, as it always did when he was nervous or strained. It was a trait Ivan shared, had shared since they'd both been born.

"I am sorry, brother," Thaddeus said at last in a low, quiet voice, even as he plunged forward to attack.

Ivan leapt out of the way, holding his sword limply at his side. "Sorry?" he repeated, at a loss. "Sorry? What—what are you—?" He hurried to form an attack as Thaddeus came toward him again.

"You were born two minutes before me," Thaddeus said, moving away from Ivan's sword with slow, tired steps. "It...it never should have happened. I'm sorry that it did—for the both of us. I don't want to do this, Ivan!" His voice cracked. "You're my brother. The problem is...when we go back to Wyndl, you'll be the crown prince, and...that can't happen. I won't let it." With these words, his voice hardened again into a low, impassive tone.

"You mean—you're betraying me. You're trying to kill me for the throne, because I was born first?" he asked, senselessly trying to comprehend how this was happening, how Thaddeus, his own twin brother was...trying to murder him!

"Yes." He didn't elaborate, only said the one word flatly, unreadable eyes staring.

"Well, I won't let you!" Ivan shouted, suddenly angry. He felt fresh adrenaline rush through his veins. What right had Thaddeus to take his throne away? Ivan was born first, two minutes first, but that still made the throne his by rights! Thaddeus was a traitor to himself and...to all of Wyndl! It was Ivan's duty, as prince and heir, to fight the traitor.

Within moments, they were both leaping and dodging and pushing forward with savage attacks. All Ivan could hear were the sounds of their blades and the roar of his own anger.

Thaddeus made a turning leap forward, spinning and attacking from the opposite side. Ivan turned, just in time to have his shoulder grazed by the tip of his brother's blade. Before Thaddeus had a chance to move back, Ivan pushed the tip of his sword into Thaddeus's torso. It did nothing; his body was covered in heavy armor, warding off all of Ivan's attempts at injury. Frowning, he looked his brother over, even as Thaddeus was lunging forward. He spotted, right beside his collar bone, a rip in the armor. He could attack there and actually puncture.

"I should have been born first, Ivan," Thaddeus was saying now. "It was pure chance, not any purpose behind it. It could have been me, and—you might hate me all you will, but...I'd be a far better king than you'll ever be."

Looking into his brother's dark eyes, Ivan suddenly felt rage flaring within him, and all of the ridiculous fights and spats they'd ever had came flying down into his mind. Thaddeus had never really liked him. He'd never been the brother he should have been. He'd always seemed...arrogant, like he thought he was better. Deep down, perhaps he'd been planning this all along, perhaps he'd always been intending to kill Ivan.

Fury hot in his chest, he leapt forward, stabbing straight for the torn spot in his brother's armor. Thaddeus was caught unawares, and the blade went right through his neck, beside his collar bone. Thaddeus made a muffled choking sound. His face suddenly went white. Ivan spotted bright, dripping blood on the man's lips, beginning to spurt out of his mouth, spattering the front of his armor as he started to stumble. He slipped in the mud a ways, then fell to his knees on the ground.

Ivan gripped the hilt of his sword, wrenching it out abruptly, stunned. Thaddeus only seemed to choke more with the blade gone, blood gushing out of his mouth now. On his knees, he fell to his left side, limply. Ivan watched him lying still on the ground for a moment, unable to move himself from the spot. Finally, he dropped to his knees beside his brother, catching the man's wrist and gripping it in his hand.

"Thaddeus," he whispered, shaking as he squeezed his brother's arm. "Thaddeus."

His brother's eyes rolled towards him, glazed over with film. He said nothing, but the blood bubbling around his mouth was beginning to stop. Ivan wasn't sure whether that was a good thing or not. Then, Thaddeus's eyes rolled to his opposite side and stayed there, staring blankly. His breath stopped.

Ivan stared, scarcely breathing himself. He stared, immobile, at the crimson blood spotting his brother's face and chest. His brother was dead. Thaddeus was dead. Ivan's head fell forward, and he stared at the ground beneath him. It smelled damp, but not the fresh damp of spring and dew. It was dirty, full of the stink of dead corpses and blood. He looked at his hands, lying halfway buried under mud. There was a red stain on them. He pulled them up, the mud sticking and resisting him, but he brought them to his eye level and saw the deep red blood. Thaddeus's blood. He'd killed his own brother. He was a murderer.

But...it was self defense! And yet...he'd still done it, and he wouldn't have had to have done it, not at that precise moment anyhow. He'd killed his brother voluntarily. He'd killed a lot of other men voluntarily and hadn't called that murder. But they were Ascharans, they were attacking him, they were his enemies! But then, Thaddeus had been attacking him. Did that make Thaddeus his enemy? And...did that make it...alright?

"Your highness, we've won! The war is over, after all these years!" Ivan glanced up to see Mattias, his father's footman, approaching with a wide smile on his old, wrinkled face. He looked down at the dead body, beginning to panic.

"Oh..." Mattias spoke quietly upon reaching him, seeing Thaddeus lying on the ground. His features fell then, and he seemed to hunch over more. "I...I'm so sorry. Did you happen to see who killed him?"

Ivan looked up dumbly. He was the one who'd killed him! Then he realized: no one else knew. All anyone had seen was him kneeling beside his fallen brother, devastated at his death. That was true. It was what he was doing. "I...I didn't see him," Ivan stuttered.

Mattias nodded. His eyes were beginning to gloss over with unshed tears. Mattias had known both of them since they were born. "It's terrible...your father..."

Ivan swallowed at the mention of his father, King Nicholas. He loved his father, and his father loved both of his sons. He would be heartbroken at the news. He—he ought to tell the man the truth. He hadn't lied to his father since he was...ten, at least! But...how could he possibly tell his father that he had killed his own brother? He couldn't do it!

More men were crowding around now, coming in closer to peer at Thaddeus's still, still body. Too still. Everything was too still, too quiet. The men's voices were hushed, whispering so he couldn't make out the words. Then, he was able to make out one voice. "At least he died in battle," someone said, "with honor and glory. A hero's death." There were several murmurs of agreement.

Ivan swallowed again, biting his lip. A hero's death. Attempting to kill his brother. It didn't match up and yet...all these men thought it was true. Was this how all heroes were born, with mixed-up legends? Were most heroes...not actually heroes at all? At last, he let out a shaky sigh. It didn't matter. All of the men, they all liked Thaddeus, loved him; he couldn't tell them that Thaddeus had tried to kill him. They might not believe him, and—he didn't want his brother to be known as a traitor. He'd...loved Thaddeus. Thaddeus had been a hero, to him, when they were growing up, to many of them. He glanced down at his brother's face, bloodied, still, dead. He took a shaky breath.

* * *

Finally, the long awaited new story! I hope you read, enjoy, and of course, review.


	2. Chapter 2

I know what you're thinking. _Whoa, this isn't just one of those stories with a good first chapter that's never updated again? _Bingo! I know, it's a shocker. After editing the first chapter of this story, which was a NaNo...well, I had kind of a complete breakdown over the story and shut it away for many long months. It had no plot; Madeleine was an annoying brat; Ivan refused to do anything but mope. But then... I had a breakthrough. And now the story is all planned out, it just needs to be written. Which I have finally resolved to do and stop being so lazy about it. Expect (or at least hope for) somewhat regular updates...perhaps?

* * *

"Hey, Ivan, want to go jump in a river or something?"

Ivan turned to glance at his brother, prepared to give nothing more than an eye roll in response. The war was over; the whole army was marching back to Wyndl, and Thaddeus suggested they go for a swim? Some things never changed.

But he didn't see Thaddeus. He saw the other soldiers marching beside him, all erect posture and clicking heels, but their faces were obscured by the thick mist they were marching through. All he saw were shadows, forms of men with no features, no definite shapes. There was no one he knew.

And they were leaving him behind. He'd gotten out of step and couldn't seem to get back, no matter how many hops he took to wind up on the right foot. The men ran into him, jostling his shoulders and grunting as they moved past. No one stopped to wait for him; no one pushed him back in place. They just left him.

"Thaddeus?" he called out his brother's name. If no one else helped him, Thaddeus would. They were brothers, after all. They might fight for hours until both of them were bruised on the ground, but they'd always be there to pick each other back up.

"I'm over here, Ivan!" His brother's voice was teasing just out of his reach, carried on the wind.

"Where?" he asked, taking a few steps forward. He couldn't hear the sounds of the other men's footsteps anymore. Everything was silent, hushed by the fog around him. He could barely see two feet in front of his face.

Then he was fighting. A man with a sword but no face hid in the low clouds around him. Metal rang through the air; a blade sang as it cut the breeze. He held his own sword in his hand, and they fought, blocked, stabbed like mad men. The stranger stepped quicker, but his sword found its mark first.

Everything cleared like crystal, and as blood bubbled on the dying man's lips, he grew a face. It was Thaddeus's face. He paled and died on the ground.

Ivan took a step backward, the sword falling from his hand like a feather. The silence whispered to him. _Murderer. Prince Ivan Glorodell is a murderer. He doesn't deserve the throne. He doesn't deserve his life._

Drops of sweat rolled down his forward. Blood slid into the cracks of his palms. He clenched his fists to hide the sight of it. But the silence whispered, _We know._

Ivan jolted awake, sitting upright in his tent. Before thinking about it, he turned to search for Thaddeus in the dark, straining his eyes to make out his brother's sleeping form. But, of course, Thaddeus wasn't there. Thaddeus was lying in a shallow grave somewhere in the Tul Mountain passes in Aschare, when he should have had a prince's burial. Or more, he should have been _here_.

He slumped back against the ground, catching his breath. It wasn't only a dream. It was a waking nightmare, but no one else knew. There was that, at least. No one accused him of murdering his brother. No one but himself.

It had been seven months since the war ended. Seven long months of negotiations and treaty forming and then marching, but he still couldn't forget. Not that he expected to forget. He only wished he didn't have the image of Thaddeus's blank eyes so permanently fixed in his mind, that he wouldn't spend every night reliving the way his brother choked on his own blood as he died.

Thaddeus had tried to kill him first. It wasn't Ivan's fault. He told himself that every day, too. But it never seemed really true.

He stared into the darkness above him and folded his hands beneath his head. He used to talk to Thaddeus in the middle of the night. If he was awake, chances were that his brother was, too. They talked about battle strategies. They talked about how men looked when they died. And then somehow, they'd be talking about food and earthquakes and horses. And then they'd jump back into the war again and wonder if any of it really mattered.

Thaddeus told him it mattered. He said they were fighting for their home.

"What's home, Thaddeus?" he'd asked. "We haven't been there since we were five."

"It doesn't matter," Thaddeus had answered, shaking his head. "Home's like... Someday, we could just be brothers. Instead of killers."

Thaddeus wasn't usually so serious, but he had spurts of it, in the middle of the night. Ivan told him once how he felt like a coward in every battle, he was so afraid to die. Thaddeus said he didn't care about dying, it was what the war was doing to him that he worried about.

"I don't want to be like this, Ivan. But I'm good at it. And I like it. I like fighting and knowing I have the upper hand. I like calculating how to win... how to... kill. I can't help it. I've always been good at it, even when we were five. I could beat you in war any day, and I loved that, and then... I never thought it would be our whole lives."

Ivan had always thought they were different. Thaddeus liked war and was good at it, while he wanted something else. But in the end... he was the best soldier. The most mechanical. He didn't even think about it. He just thrust his sword forward and killed his twin brother.

But Thaddeus had been the traitor first, he reminded himself again. Maybe everything he'd said was just a lie to keep Ivan on his side and strike unexpectedly. Maybe he'd never been sorry for being so good at killing. But... Ivan couldn't believe that. Thaddeus was sorry, even when he attacked. But then, earth and sky, why did he do it? It's not like anyone was forcing him to!

A crackling sound carried from outside the tent, and Ivan let himself be distracted by it. He crawled to the door and help back the tent flap. A red and orange fire blazed outside, and a man sat on a log next to it.

He squinted and then recognized the man as Rafe Thornton. His chin was resting on his fist as he poked at the ashes with a long stick. Ivan hesitated, but his mind was quickly made up. He knew Rafe fairly well and sitting with him seemed like a better prospect than sleeping.

Rafe glanced over at him the moment his foot hit the ground outside his tent. He gave a crooked smile. "Ivan. Couldn't sleep, eh?" His smile widened, and nothing in his manner suggested that he was speaking to the crown prince of his country. But that was Rafe. The man had joined and deserted the army more times than anyone could count, and no one bothered much about trying to make him adhere to the rules anymore. He was a wild card, but not a bad fellow.

"You too?" Ivan asked, as he took a seat on a log across from Rafe, rubbing his forehead. He hadn't slept for more than a few hours a night in a long time, but he didn't take Rafe for the sort of man to be bothered by anything.

Rafe shrugged. "Oh, I don't know. I haven't tried. Just didn't feel like it. I was sitting here, looking at the fire, and it just occurred to me: why does everyone sleep at night? Why not in the day? I always liked the night better than the day anyway, you know?"

Ivan blinked. He didn't know. He wasn't sure what the point of the question was. People slept at night. It was what they did. Did there need to be a reason? "Well... you can see better during the day," he came up with at last.

Rafe peered at him with sharp eyes, then shrugged again. "True, that." He leaned back, dropping his stick and planting his hands against the back of his log. "Anyhow," he said, "I was considering stealing a horse and racing home. I could go faster myself than with the whole army."

Ivan looked at Rafe's grin, the way his eyebrows rose in a taunting way, like he was daring Ivan to fight him. He glanced down at the fire instead, picking out the blue flame from the orange and watching the way they wavered in the air. "I don't think you should steal a horse," he said quietly, without looking up.

Rafe shot up, standing in front of the fire with his hands on his hips. "Look, I'm in the cavalry, your highness. One of those horses is rightfully mine, and there's no reason I can't ride it back now. The war's over, isn't it? And the army's not my profession. I'm free to go as I please."

Ivan looked back up slowly. "Well, then by all means, go. But you'll miss the welcoming procession."

Rafe looked at him again, then laughed as he settled back in his seat. "You got me there, Ivan. That's why I like you. Sharp thinking. After all, who'd want to miss the welcoming? All the ladies waving their handkerchiefs at you." He winked.

Ivan said nothing. He didn't have the acquaintance of many ladies. He'd met some, of course, while they were stationed at towns near the border. Thaddeus became quite popular with some of them, but he never did. It wasn't that he didn't like them, necessarily. It was just that they were never stationed in those towns for very long, and it all seemed so foreign to him. He'd grown up in war. Every memory he had seemed related to it, somehow, except... running in the hallways. Playing in the courtyard. With Thaddeus.

He crossed his arms, cutting off that line of thought, and looked back at Rafe who was watching him with one dark eyebrow raised just a hair above the other.

"You know," Rafe said, "not stealing a horse doesn't mean tonight has to be boring. I'm sure we could find something to do." He stood up again and started turning his head from side to side, glancing around them.

Ivan watched the man and shook his head. "We're in the middle of the wilderness." They'd made it to Wyndl now, but Aschare was still close enough to make them feel like they were being watched over their shoulders. No Wyndlans lived this far east.

"Exactly," Rafe said, looking back at Ivan with a wide grin. "We're in the middle of the wilderness. Close to the same river that flows through Saimes, if I know my geography. And I do know my geography. It was one subject I thought was at least somewhat important, for traveling purposes. Visiting. So, you want to go jump in the river?"

Ivan blinked. "W-what?" That was what Thaddeus asked him. If he wanted to go jump in a river. Was that—some sort of sign? Or was he just losing his mind?

"Don't look so terrified," Rafe said. He had his arms crossed and one eyebrow raised. "It's not like you're going to die. It's just a river."

He blinked a few more times and didn't move from his spot.

"You don't have to go if you're really too afraid. But I think it would be better than sleeping with nightmares." The corners of his mouth twitched in a smirk, and Ivan clenched his fists. He was a soldier. He was better than nightmares.

"I'll go," he said, standing on his feet.

Rafe smiled. "Good." He turned on his heel and walked between the tents, into the forest outside of them.

Ivan realized this wasn't a smart idea. Tomorrow they'd be marching again, and he needed to sleep, not go traipsing into the forest with a man too wild and hot headed for his own good. But he was already on his way now. And it wasn't as if he hadn't done this sort of thing before. Not often, of course. He and Thaddeus were good soldiers. They took their battles seriously, but... in between battles was a different matter. He'd broken his arm once, racing war horses after dark with Thaddeus. Taking a short cut through the forest wasn't a good idea.

The trees drew up around them as they walked, and the thick canopy of leaves shut out any light. Trees and brush alike were shapeless voids. Pale light shafted down through holes in the top of the forest, but otherwise they were walking blind.

"Rafe, do you know where you're going?" Ivan asked after several minutes of walking.

"Not really," Rafe replied, and they kept going.

It wasn't long before they heard the river. It sounded like an army, rushing past them. They came out of the trees, and there it was, glistening in the moonlight. Thick grasses grew up next to the water, with a few white flowers bending over the surface. It was pretty, actually, if a bit eerie in the pale light.

"Is that a fire over there?" Rafe asked, and Ivan turned to see where he was pointing.

Across the river, there was an orange and red light, glowing just like the one they'd left back at camp. He nodded at Rafe and frowned. He didn't think anyone lived out here. "Who do you suppose...?"

"Let's find out," Rafe said, grinning. He looked like a maniac in the dark, with white teeth and dark, blazing eyes.

Ivan nodded anyway. He was curious. He wanted to know who it was, out here so far from any kind of civilization. He stopped nodding when Rafe started walking into the river up to his thighs.

"Well, are you coming?" Rafe asked, his hands on his hips.

"I'm...not sure that's a good idea," Ivan said.

"What, are you afraid of a little water?"

Ivan looked at the river. It was not what he would call a 'little' water. It was more like four cavalry regiments all rushing forward at breakneck speeds. They wouldn't stop for anyone, and they'd crush whatever was in their path.

"Well, if you want to go back to your nightmares, no one's stopping you."

His eyes snapped up to meet Rafe's, dancing in the moonlight. Rafe was grinning, challenging him. It was stupid, and it was the second time he'd fallen for that, but if Rafe knew about his nightmares, and it got around...he couldn't stand it. He knew he was better than that. Or at least, Thaddeus was better than that. Thaddeus.

And then he was marching into the river as if he was marching into battle, rigidly prepared. It wasn't something he wanted to do. It wasn't something he would enjoy doing. But it was something he was trained to do: take challenges, be as good as his brother, for once.

The water seeped into his clothing, and the logical part of his brain reminded him that it was much too early in spring to be swimming; they were probably both going to freeze to death, and then Wyndl would be without a crown prince, and when his father died, the throne would go to some second cousin twice removed who wouldn't know the first thing about ruling a country.

For some reason, he did not let these thoughts deter him. Rafe was beside him, going on about the fire on the other side, and then he said, "So long," and dipped beneath the surface.

Ivan stopped for a moment, a bit uneasily. He didn't want to swim across the river. He could hear it louder than before, and drowning started to seem very likely. But he was already here. There was nothing to be done.

He took a few more steps on the sandy bottom, and then it disappeared beneath him. He treaded water, then did a surface dive and started to swim. When he opened his eyes underwater, all he saw was black, swirling in great tendrils around him. Like something out of his nightmares, it stopped his heart for a moment. He expected to see Thaddeus behind the blackness, reaching out for him, for revenge. He heard his heart beat dully, muffled by the water all around him, flooding, crushing. The river seemed violent now, throwing and spinning him about. His air was leaving his lungs all too fast.

He kicked and pushed against the water, trying to reach the surface. It was farther up than he'd thought and much harder to reach. The water seemed to beat on all sides of him, as if he were surrounded by attackers, without a weapon of his own.

Finally, he managed to hold his head above water for barely a second, only long enough to take in a gasping breath and glance around for Rafe. He didn't see the man. Briefly, he wondered if Rafe was dead, if that would be his fault also, if he would be haunted by Rafe's ghosts as well, if he was a murderer twice over.

But he was fighting for his own life now. The current was dragging him down, the dark tendrils wrapped about both ankles. He thrashed against them, fighting with every ounce of willpower he had. But the river was stronger. How could he fight a whole river, a river adjoining to an ocean, somewhere far away, connected to all the water in the world? He was dragged down, slowly but steadily, and his head started to feel fuzzy, his vision blurring. He deserved this. It was clear to him, amidst the bubbles and darkness, that he ought to die. He'd killed Thaddeus, now it was his turn. When he closed his eyes, he could see his brother's face, staring back at him, eyes blank.

_I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. _Then an ounce of fight returned to him with that nagging thought. _But—you're the one who tried to kill me, aren't you? What did I ever do to deserve that? _He thrashed again, yanking his arms and legs about, survival mode taking over. He needed to live. He needed to find reasons, and—he needed to know he was more than a murderer.

He ripped himself free of the currents and tore to the surface, gulping in air, still moving his limbs a mile a minute to keep himself free from the currents. It was several moments before he realized he was past that part of the river, and he could move easily. He blinked several times and felt warm water dripping down his cheeks. He splashed the cold water on his face and swam slowly toward the shore that now wasn't far away.

It wasn't long before he touched bottom and walked, dripping, onto shore. When he was back onto the grass, he fell on his knees. He was shaking. He was—alive. He couldn't fathom why. Yes, he'd fought back, but he wasn't stronger than the river. He wasn't stronger than the world.

"Ivan! You made it too!"

He glanced to his right to see Rafe straggling towards him. Water streamed from his black hair, and he was trying to contain his shivering, but the man was very much alive.

Ivan couldn't help but grin. "Rafe," he said. He didn't quite manage to say anything else.

Rafe grinned back at him and ignored his lack of other conversation. "Well, let's go see what that fire's all about, eh? I think we got washed a bit downstream from it. It should be this way," he said, starting toward Ivan's left side.

Ivan nodded and stood up, following Rafe. They walked along the shore, stumbling in the wet sand, forcing their way through trees and bushes that grew by the water. Finally, they spotted the orange flames through a thicket in front of them. The crackling sound of fire was in the air, muffling low voices.

Rafe stopped and turned to face Ivan. "We'll go slow," he said, whispering. "Stop in front of them, where we're still hidden. See if we recognize them, listen to what they're saying. Then decide if we want to approach. All right?"

Ivan nodded, and the two of them stepped forward, pressing themselves up against the thicket to where they could peer through. There were five men around the fire, and they seemed strangely familiar. "Isn't that—"

"Lord Luck of Pennyshire, Saimes, in the middle," Rafe answered before Ivan could even finish his question. His answer seemed almost too quick, and Ivan glanced at him with a raised brow. "I know one of his stepdaughters quite well," Rafe explained. "I used to live by them—still do, sort of. Not really. I never really lived by her, but I switch my circles to match hers, so I can harass her obsessively."

Ivan blinked a few times and then actually looked at the man. He was middle-aged with a dark complexion and a dignified manner. He looked calm and composed, almost calculating as he glanced into the fire. The men around him were all talking. He was silent, but somehow it seemed that he had more power than all of them.

"I know the others, too," Rafe said after a moment. "Lord Arem, Kent, Lisley, Graven, Shant. Shouldn't they be with the army?"

Ivan glanced at Rafe again. He knew all these men also, in a vague sort of way, as he knew thousands of people...his subjects. It seemed odd to think of them that way. "I haven't seen them in...years," he said. "They used to be around at the beginning of the war. I remember Lord Luck being there when Thaddeus and I had our first battles as commanders, but...I haven't seen him since."

Rafe frowned. "Blair said he was leaving to be with the army full time, around the same time that I left, for the final battles. But you haven't seen him?"

Ivan shook his head. "I haven't seen any of them."

"And now they're out here," Rafe said in a low voice. "What are they hiding?"

They listened, and words were spoken by the men around the fire, assassination and ascension, words that shot arrows of silence into the night. The moon glinted in Rafe's eyes, and he stepped through the thicket, forcing his way to the other side.

Ivan's heart whispered warnings, but he felt doomed to follow, and he went after Rafe when he heard the man's voice. "What the hell are you all doing? Shouldn't you be with the rest of the army, or something? Home at the very least, not sitting out here in the middle of nowhere like a bunch of vagabonds."

Ivan glanced worriedly at Rafe and at the men who were now all staring at them. Some of them looked worried, some just confused. Lord Luck smiled. "So you finally came through the thicket," he said in a smooth voice. "I was wondering when you would. The two of you breathe as loud as a horse. Rather makes me wonder how the war was ever won." He looked at Ivan especially when he said this and glancing up and down, as if wondering what he was worth.

"Yes, well. What are you doing?" Rafe asked again.

Lord Luck glanced at him. "We're having a meeting, that's all."

"Why here?" Rafe asked, glancing around. "And why haven't you been with the rest of the army?"

"We have, off and on. Much the same as yourself, Rafe Thornton. I know how often you've abandoned the army to go visit my stepdaughter. We all have our business at home. I do regret that we were unable to make it to the final battles of the war. All of us were delayed." He paused for a moment, and his eyes traveled back to Ivan's face. "I am sorry about your brother, Prince Ivan. I was devastated when I heard the news."

"I...thank you," Ivan said, nearly stuttering. He cursed himself for sounding like a such a blubbering fool.

"How did you hear the news?" Rafe asked, frowning. "If you never made it to the final battles...how do you know what happened at all?"

"News does travel quickly. And we made it farther than this. We were in Venturi when the battle was fought. We thought to travel back quickly with the news after the treaty was signed, but...it seems we aren't so far ahead of you."

"And why weren't you around when the treaty was being worked out with the Ascharans? It took an absurd amount of time. Lords like you could have helped."

"We were around, just not so visibly. We might not be spoken well of, being there for the treaty but not having been seen in the actual fighting."

"We heard you talking. You said assassination, ascension. What are you talking about?" Rafe sounded businesslike. He sounded like he had authority, while Ivan—the prince—was just standing there, gaping at them all. He tried to stand straighter, to look regal, but he had a feeling that he failed.

Lord Luck smiled. "So many questions, Rafe. Not everything can be answered so simply."

Rafe crossed his arms. "Five prominent lords of Wyndl in a secret meeting, talking assassination and ascension. It looks like conspiracy to me."

Lord Luck's smile grew a tad bit wider. "You assume too much. There's such a thing as metaphorically speaking. Besides, there's only the king and crown prince. No plotting cousins or brothers. I doubt anyone even knows who would take the throne if they were to be assassinated, as you seem to think is plausible. It would be pointless."

Ivan wanted to say something to that, at least. Attributing his and his father's murders as simply pointless, rather than treason was—wrong. Lord Luck spoke far too flippantly of the matter for his tastes. But...what was there to say about it? And what could he, of all people, say about it? He'd killed the other prince, his own brother.

Lord Luck's eyes turned away from him, and Ivan finally noticed that he'd been stared at. He had a feeling that Lord Luck knew...something. Something about Thaddeus, and himself, and what really happened between them.

There was another moment of silence before Rafe glanced at him. "Ivan, let's get out of here," he said, "There's nothing for us to talk about with these men."

Ivan nodded, still without a word, and they both turned and walked back through the thicket.

"Farewell, Rafe, Ivan," Lord Luck called to them as they reached the other side. They kept walking, without glancing back.

When they were out of hearing range, Rafe glanced at him again. "I don't know what that was all about," he said. "But I don't like it. I've never liked Lord Luck. I always felt like he was up to something when he was courting Blair's mother."

Ivan nodded. "Do you...think they're planning something?"

"Something, all right. Though I can't see what. Killing you really would be pointless, if they don't have some other candidate for the throne. And I don't know who they'd have. Can you think of anyone?"

Ivan thought of Thaddeus, turning on him in the battlefield. Lord Luck and the rest of them, they could have been plotting with Thaddeus. It could have been planned out long before that last battle.

"Well, can you?" Rafe asked.

He pursed his lips. He couldn't mention Thaddeus. That would reveal that Thaddeus hadn't been killed by the Ascharans in battle, and he couldn't let anyone know that...he was the one who'd killed his brother. "No," he said.

"Well, maybe it's nothing then," Rafe said, quickening pace. "Anyway, let's get back to camp quick. I'm freezing."

Ivan nodded and forced his legs to move a little faster. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe they'd let him alone now. No plotting cousins or...brothers. But Lord Luck had looked at him like he knew. Maybe...maybe he'd realize now that Ivan was the stronger one, and he wouldn't be easily done away with. He swallowed the gnawing feeling that he wasn't any stronger than Thaddeus; he was just a coward, just a murderer by accident. Instead, he thought of the fire waiting for them at camp, and sleep. Oh, sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

This was my most hated chapter in the original version, so if it's awful...I'm sorry. But I can't stand to go through it another time. Next chapter will be better...hopefully. :D Anyway, a big thank you to those of you still reading and reviewing! Love you!

* * *

"It's a lovely day for a procession, too," Madeleine said, glancing up at the sky. The clouds looked like a dirty rag that couldn't hold much more; everything was going to come spilling out in a moment or two. Honestly, why did they have to have a procession at all? Celebrating the end of the war, they said: victory, the return of loved ones. She crossed her arms in front of her. No one was coming back that she cared about.

"Maddie," Simon said, glancing at her as they walked, "we don't have to go."

"Oh, shut up! We didn't spend two hours scrounging up your geese to lock them up for nothing. And it's not like I'm going to melt. And I'm not that disfigured either. Stop looking at me like that."

Simon turned his eyes away from her and back to the road in front of them. "I'm sorry," he said, and she felt the scars on her face burning as if she was in the fire all over again.

She hated that—the way they flamed up whenever she was angry or upset or—or anything. She hated it especially because she knew Simon wasn't even looking at her scars—he was her best friend in the whole world, and he'd never once looked at her differently after the accident, and here she was biting his head off for no reason.

"_I'm _sorry, Simon," she said after a minute. "It's just...I haven't even gone into town since—and the weather's all miserable looking, and—"

"It's been a long winter," Simon said, and she knew she didn't have to explain any further. Goodness, she loved Simon. Other people said he was slow and stupid, but he wasn't at all. He was just...content, herding his geese day after day while other young men were roaring to do something new. That didn't make him stupid.

"I _am_ excited to see the royal family. And they're coming to stay in Saimes—well, just outside anyway. I still can't see why. I don't think we're all that much to recommend."

Simon gave one of his lazy smiles and walked on in silence.

"I guess their other castles weren't much to recommend now either. Ruined in war, they say. Honestly, I feel like it's said about nearly everything these days. Simon, don't you think—" She stopped speaking abruptly when she saw what lay in front of them. The gate opened on the north side of town. There was the well inside, and—and here was where she'd danced at Autumn Festival, right here on this part of the road. Ash still dusted the street—from a more recent fire. Still, it stopped her heart for a moment.

"Maddie," Simon said, when he realized she wasn't walking with him anymore. He turned toward her; she could see his face in the corner of her eye but couldn't quite tear her gaze away from the ashes. "It's just town," he said and grabbed her hand, pulling her through the gate.

But inside it was worse. People were already beginning to line the sides of the streets – not many yet, but there were more bustling in and out of the shops. She felt her breathing quicken, scars burning. She hadn't been to town since Autumn Festival. No one had seen her. Her hand moved over her cheek, trying to hide some of the pinched, puckered skin.

It was too late. Children were chasing their chickens out of the street, and they recognized her. She knew them – Abigail, Johnny, and Ilsa – their father was a blacksmith here in town. Whenever she came in, they were always dashing through the streets. "Madeleine!" Abby shouted as they all came running. "We haven't seen you in months! What happened to your face?"

Their eyes were wide – curiosity, she knew, but she couldn't help but wonder if there wasn't something else – in Ilsa's stiff posture, Johnny's staring eyes.

"It looks like a turkey's head, a little bit."

"Johnny, shh," Ilsa said, elbowing the boy.

"What happened?" Abby asked again.

"Well, at Autumn Festival, I..." They all stared. She bit her lip. They didn't know about the fire dancing, and she didn't want to tell them. She didn't want to even think about it. "I got burnt."

"How'd that happen?" Johnny asked.

"You were so pretty..." Abby said, sighing.

With each remark, she felt her chest growing tighter, her whole body stiffening. Simon's hand touched her arm, but she couldn't stand it—couldn't stand the pity. She ripped away from him, throwing each foot forward just to keep moving. She didn't know where she was going, just away. She had to get away. She could hear Simon say something to the children, and then he was next to her.

"I can't do this," she said before he had a chance to say anything. "I can't stand out in the street with people looking at me. Maybe that's horribly vain, but I just can't. And if anyone asks me about the scars, I'm going to scream."

"Where do you want to go then?" Simon asked.

She took a breath, shaking her head as she glanced down the street. She used to like coming to town. She liked the bustle of people, everyone lost in their every day lives. She liked analyzing them. Why Mrs. Hartford bought _that_ kind of bread today, and why Jacob White whistled _that_ tune and just what that indicated about their characters. She suspected it had everything to do with their mental states, that Jacob was finally recovering from his unrequited love, and Mrs. Hartford had never really gotten over her home town, so she made sugary impulse buys whenever her husband was away.

Madeleine smiled, a small smile. She used to have fun here. It was so easy to get lost in the lives of other people. Her own was a different matter.

"Maddie..." Simon was getting tired of her staring silence.

"I want to go there," she said, suddenly spotting a sign at the end of the street. The sign had a rough painting of a shoe, not altogether interesting, but above it was a picture of a masquerade mask. She'd seen the sign before, she supposed, but she'd never paid it much attention in passing. Now, though...it intrigued her. It was faded and the paint was chipping, but she could see that it had once been beautiful, complete with texture details, what could have been encrusted jewels, if not for the weathering.

She turned to Simon and smiled at him. "Let's go. It looks beautifully intriguing, don't you think?"

Simon gave her a bit of a look, but then they started toward the shop together. As they stepped onto the walkway, a woman came out of the bakery, and Madeleine nearly flinched at the expression on her face, changing from normal to shock and horror in an instant. She turned her eyes down quickly, but it didn't change what happened.

It didn't matter, though. She was fine. Madeleine was fine. She'd survived burning; she could certainly survive people. She walked a bit faster down the walkway and pulled open the door of the shop with the mask on the sign.

Inside, she had to squint in the dim lighting. Behind her, Simon coughed, and she saw dust particles floating in the air where the sunlight drifted through the window. On the floor, shoe leather was scattered hap hazardously, along with wooden soles, all in various stages of finish. She looked all around the room and finally spotted the desk, scooted over to one side of the room, where a gray haired man sat.

He stood up when she looked at him and gave an embarrassed glance at the mess around him. When he finally looked back at them, from her to Simon, he raised his eyebrows. "You...here for shoes?" he asked at last.

Madeleine smiled. The man sounded like he hadn't had a customer in years and didn't know what to make of it. Perhaps he hadn't. "Ruined in war," she said under her breath, laughing a little. Simon glanced at her; the old man crossed his arms. "Sorry," she said, smiling at him. "No, we, um..." She took a few more steps toward the man, carefully making her way through the shoes. "I saw your sign," she said, when she was close enough to see him better. "You do look familiar. I didn't think I knew you, but...I'm sure I've seen you around, anyway. What's your name?"

"Myron Norris," he said, sitting back down with a sigh. He sounded like he'd said the name a few too many times before and was tired of it now. "I'm not surprised you don't know it," he added, glancing up at her. "No one seems to, anymore."

"What do you mean?" she asked with a puzzled brow.

He shrugged. "I don't get much business anymore, Miss...?"

"Madeleine," she said, extending her hand for him to shake. "Madeleine Lisette Luck." She wasn't sure why she gave him her whole name, but she did, and shook his hand firmly.

"Simon Orson," Simon said, stepping forward also. He was giving her a funny glance. He'd told her before that she didn't act like herself with strangers. She was bold and rude and impertinent with strangers, but never with him. Truthfully, she wasn't sure. Sometimes she felt more herself with strangers than with people she knew. Simon...well, she'd grown up with him. He still called her Maddie even though no one else did. And she loved him for that, but sometimes she wondered if the rude, impertinent girl wasn't more the way she really was.

In any case, Myron was still staring at them, and she remembered that she hadn't said why she was really here. He looked almost bored watching them, and she thought that his life must have had a slow wearing down. He looked nearly broken down, but it was clear that his life hadn't snapped in half all at once. It must have been gradual, a slow wearing away of his interest in the world.

"Myron," she said finally, deciding to draw on familiarity...or impertinence, "I noticed your sign outside, and...it captured my interest straight away. The mask, I mean, not the shoe. Shoes are so commonplace, you know, but not so with masks. Do you sell them here?"

He looked at her for a long time before speaking. She began to feel like he wouldn't answer her, but finally, he said, "I used to sell them."

"Well, do you still?" She glanced around the room. "Or...did you go out of business?"

"You could say that," he said, sighing. When she kept staring at him, he went on. "Well, it's the same as anything else. I used to have excellent business. Nobles came from miles around for my masks. They were a legend. If you were attending a masquerade ball, you came here. I'd like to think it's one of the reasons Saimes became what it is today." He smiled, a thin smile, like a memory. "But then the war happened. With no royalty around and nearly all the men gone anyway, there was no need for masquerade masks. So I went to shoes." He glanced with disdain at one of the wooden soles nearest him and reached out his foot to kick it.

Madeleine pursed her lips together. "I'm sorry, Myron," she said in a whisper. And she was. Sometimes, she didn't feel like she really had it in her to pity anyone very much, but she was sorry for Myron. To have something so beautiful, and then to switch to a mode of life that would seem such drudgery in comparison... "Do—do you still have any of your masks?"

He leaned back in his chair. "I have a few," he said slowly.

"Might I see them?" she asked, perhaps a bit too quickly. She felt his eyes flick to her face, but not into her own eyes. He was scanning her face, the scars on her cheeks, eyes drifting down to her throat. He couldn't see, but they also went to her shoulders and all down her arms and her legs also. Her torso had been saved and—well, a lot of her had been saved. She felt like she ought to have died for the amount of time she was in the fire, but she was only a little singed around the edges, in the larger scheme of things. But it was still ugly.

"I suppose you would want to see them," Myron said, quietly, still staring at her skin. "I've made masks for princesses, and you're just..." He trailed off and then glanced at Simon. "And what are you? A sheep herder?"

"Geese," Simon said. His voice was sharper than she'd heard it before. She glanced at him and at Myron and decided that she hated Myron, hated everything he was and everything he stood for. She'd liked him, liked him a lot until now, but he'd ruined everything. She felt every ounce of pain she'd felt in the fire flaring up again.

"Simon," she said, hands shaking, "Let's go."

"I'm sorry," he said, before they reached the door. Something in his voice made her glance back at him. He was standing up again, his hand reaching toward them. "I'm sorry," he said again. "That wasn't a statement anyone should make. I'm afraid I'm an old, grumpy, arrogant man. But I'd like to feel that I'm not useless again. So if you'll please...it would be my pleasure to show you my masks, Miss Madeleine Lisette Luck. Lady Madeleine Lisette Luck. You deserve that title."

She took a deep breath. Her heart felt like it was melting a little bit. She glanced at Simon.

He was smiling at her. "He called you Lady," he said, shrugging.

She smiled also and nodded at Myron.

He smiled back at her, and she decided that he had a nice smile, like the grandfather who smokes pipe weed and tells younger people of the days when he was their age and makes jokes with allusions no one understands. But he was more than that.

He indicated the back of the room and waited for Simon and her to go first, following them to a wood chest that was pushed up against the far wall. Myron ran his hand over the drawers, caressing them almost, and she knew he valued what lay inside. Finally, he opened the top drawer, and she felt her breath rush out of her all at once.

They were beautiful. She'd seen masks before, but...not like this. The ones the girls wore for fire dancing were just dull cloth cutouts, but these... Some were gold, some painted in vibrant reds and blues, greens and pinks and oranges. Some were bedecked with jewels that sparkled like tiny stars. Some had feathers laced through them, dyed to match the sky. Each one was exquisitely designed, with painstaking detail.

Myron was smiling at her. "Do you like them?"

She laughed—felt like she could cry. "Like them? They're the most exquisite things I've ever seen in all my life! You made them all?"

He nodded. "You take them out to look closer if you wish."

She glanced down at the masks again, almost afraid to touch them. Finally, she picked up one with sapphire and silver stones dotting the edges, around the outside and the two eye holes. Green feathers were on top, forming a plume. The mask reminded her of the sea in the pictures she'd seen in some of her father's books—for a moment, her elation stopped as she thought of her father. He'd seen her fail. And he wasn't going to come back today with the rest of the soldiers. He'd never even written a letter. She pushed him out of her mind and glanced at Myron as she set the mask back down. "How do you make these?" she asked, to take her mind off other things.

"Out of paper, mostly," Myron replied, looking down at them. "Well, as a base anyway. Then there's all the cloth and jewels and whatever else, and usually by that time it has to be reinforced with something—wood usually—but paper's the base of it all."

"Paper faces," Madeleine said with a smile. She imagined all the masks on actual people, a room full of them, crowding each other, rather too close for comfort, but so beautiful. "Have you ever been to a masquerade ball yourself, Myron?"

He smiled. "Aye, I have, back in the day. And I'll tell you one thing, it's difficult to find anybody in that sort of a crowd, everyone so disguised. And yet I've heard tell – old wives tales, perhaps, but all the same – that a masquerade is the best to find your true love. All you have to do is look for yourself."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Simon asked, frowning.

Madeleine glanced at Myron, equally quizzical, and then back at the masks, trying to pick out a favorite. She took out one that was whiter than the puffy clouds in summer. It was so white, so pure, so shining. There were two large flowers on either side of it, also white, but each petal had spiraling patterns of jewels that changed color with the lighting. First they appeared just as white as the rest, but then they shone a light pink, then a vibrant green, gold like sunshine, blue as the sky.

"Well, people always pick out the mask least like themselves as their disguise," Myron said. "It helps them pretend they aren't themselves at all, but in a crowd, they look for a familiar face. And they'll find the face they know best—themselves, but in actuality, it'll be someone quite different. But that difference—it's just what they need to complete themselves."

Madeleine laughed as she set the mask back in its place. "I don't know if anyone could really be happy with someone the complete opposite of themselves. You know – birds of a feather flock together, and whatnot."

Myron shrugged. "It's not for me to say. I thought you might be interested, is all." He glanced at the dusty window then, and Madeleine saw that there were more people in the street now. It might be hard to find a good place to stand. Myron glanced at them. "Well, I don't know about you two, but I would like to see this procession that's such the talk of the town."

"We'd like to see it also," Madeleine said, glancing at Simon. "We can all stand together. It'll be lovely!" She smiled and started to walk to the door.

Outside, it was raining. Fat drops came down like they were squeezed from a washcloth above. They came down hard, shattering against the ground and sliding their way into it. Madeleine squinted as she glanced at Myron and Simon. "Lovely day," she said sarcastically. Her hair was getting wet. She could feel it. A raindrop fell on her forehead and dripped down her cheek. It didn't feel so bad, on her scars.

Some of the people in the street began to disperse, murmuring about how getting soaked wasn't worth seeing a king and queen and prince they'd scarcely heard from in sixteen years. They certainly didn't seem to count royalty being worth much. Personally, Madeleine was in agreement with them. When the war started, she'd only been two years old. Almost her whole life had been lived without royalty around at all. And everything had been just fine. From her view, Wyndl didn't need a king.

Though...there was Myron. She smiled at him suddenly. "Myron, if they're coming back, maybe you'll have business again!"

He smiled at her. "Maybe," he said. "Though...I'm not sure. It's been a long time." He looked into the street for a long moment, then back at her. He reached out and pulled her backward a bit. "Stand against the wall," he said. "The awning should keep you a bit dry."

Everyone stared into the road. Madeleine was beginning to wonder if they would show up at all, but then she heard a noise—hoofbeats, footsteps. She leaned forward, on her tiptoes, craning her neck. They were coming from the left, and they'd go on down this street and out, to the castle just west of the village.

Finally she could see them. There was an older, bearded man that bore a distinct look of dignity and gentility—that must be King Nicholas. And beside him was a woman with beautiful golden hair—perhaps not as bright as it had once been, but she had an elegance that couldn't be worn down with age. She was Queen Sidonie, without a doubt. Just behind the two of them was a young man that Madeleine supposed was Prince Ivan. The rest of the army was behind him, some riding and some on foot, but she didn't care about them. She didn't care about any of them, really, but the royals were more interesting than the rest.

As the procession came on down the street, closer to them, people started moving, leaning to see but still trying to stay dry at the same time. She found herself squeezed from her place against the wall and pushed forward, into the rain. She glanced backward with a frown. There was a large, red faced man behind her—he'd stolen her place under the awning. "I believe I was standing there, sir," she said, raising an eyebrow.

He looked her up and down and then smiled. "Well, you're not now, are you, lass?"

"Sir—"

"Anyway, you're a young thing. I'm sure you can survive a bit of rain."

She blinked a few times and squared her jaw. "I'll get my place back," she said under her breath. She turned back toward the street and then shoved backward, forcing her way against the wall. This, however, upset someone on her other side. They pushed her toward the people in front of her, and suddenly the space she'd been standing in was in an uproar. People were shouting about simply wanting to watch the procession in peace and it not really being worth it and what was everyone's problem with simply respecting the people around them.

She was thrown about like a sack of potatoes before she found herself reeling into the street. Her heart beat fast then; the king and queen were _right there_, and she was sure she'd be trampled underneath them. She squeezed her eyes shut as she fell in the mud, listening for the sound of hoofbeats around her.

But then, it was silent. No noise except the rain, pattering in rhythm against the ground. She opened her eyes. Two horses stood in front of her and one behind. She was sandwiched between the king and queen and the prince. And there he was, standing above her.

"My lady, are you all right?" he asked, offering her his hand.

She blinked a few times before reaching for him. She splashed a handful of mud into his on accident, but he didn't seem to notice. He merely pulled her swiftly to her feet, and said, "You should stay out of the street when horses are coming through."

She stared at him for a long moment and felt a smile threatening to break through. She raised an eyebrow, finally, assuming her most shocked face. "You don't say?" She couldn't help but laugh then as she stepped past him on her way to the other side of the street. It looked less crowded there, anyway.

Glancing back, she saw him standing there, blinking in the rain before he got back up on his horse, and she laughed again, concluding that Prince Ivan was a very dazed and confused sort of fellow, but she quite liked him.


	4. Chapter 4

Blair rung her black hair out as best she could, letting the drops of water fall to the floor in front of the fireplace. She hated rain. And it seemed so unnecessary, after all the snow they'd already had. She wouldn't have stayed at the procession at all, if it had been up to her. But Edith insisted. _We will stay to support our king and country, _she'd said icily. _Anyone who does otherwise might as well be a traitor to the crown._

So they'd stood there, in the torrent of rain, for nearly an hour just to watch a bunch of men trot by without a word to say for themselves. Though, as she rubbed her hands together and moved closer to the orange flames, she supposed it wasn't a complete loss. Her thoughts lingered on the memory of Prince Ivan as he rode by, right next to her in the street. There was something in the way he sat his horse, the way he looked around...his jawline, maybe. She liked it.

He reminded her, a bit, of...her father. Father. She took in a deep breath through her nose and coughed on smoke billowing out from the fire. She took a quick step into clean air, shaking her head. She wouldn't think of Father. She wouldn't revisit Shinsworth. The days of riding through the open fields and studying the laws of nature were long over. Father was three years dead. Mother was remarried, and they were all relocated to Saimes. Visiting the past was what kept Adelle crying for so long, and she wouldn't cry like Adelle.

"Blair, can I come in?"

Blair sighed. There she was now, her sister. But she supposed it wouldn't be that bad to have company for a moment. "Yes, Adelle," she said at last.

The door opened with an ear piercing creak, and Blair winced as she made a mental note to remind Lane to oil the hinges. For all that Lord Luck was supposedly one of the richest men around, the house certainly wasn't kept up very well. In fact, she had her suspicions that he wasn't really very rich at all; the whole situation made a heap more sense that way.

Adelle was a mess of blonde hair—curls that had wilted in the rain and were now drying into stringiness. Her eyes were red. Blair could tell she'd been crying again, for what reason she couldn't fathom. "What is it, Adelle?" she asked quickly, in a business tone. She didn't want to listen to her sister wail and take up another useless hour of her time.

"I—I just wanted to talk to you, a little. To talk to someone." Adelle paused, biting her lip. When Blair didn't say anything, she went on. "What did you think of the procession?"

Blair crossed her arms and looked back into the fire. "I didn't think anything of it. What was I supposed to think? It was scarcely ten minutes, when we stood out there waiting for nearly an hour."

Adelle nodded, one of her timid nods, where it was never quite clear what she was agreeing with. "I thought they could have stopped, for a moment at least. They could have said something. About Thaddeus."

Blair narrowed her eyes. Adelle seemed to have taken a personal grief at Thaddeus's death, which was ridiculous. The army had been stationed in Shinsworth, by the border, two years ago when they lived there, just before Edith married Lord Luck. They had met Thaddeus and all the royal family, but it wasn't enough for Adelle to be _that_ heartbroken. Blair had probably had just as many conversations with him as Adelle had, and she certainly wasn't sobbing over him.

"Ivan looked so sad, don't you think? I wonder if he'll be all right. He looked so different from how he looked in Shinsworth."

Blair looked at Adelle and frowned. She hadn't noticed any difference in Ivan from Shinsworth and Ivan now. Of course...she hadn't really noticed him at all in Shinsworth, but...that wasn't the point. He'd be fine. He was a prince. He was strong, wasn't he? Of course he'd be all right.

Adelle paused for a moment, staring into the fire, then spoke, "I wonder what he and Madeleine said to each other."

Blair felt her frown deepen. She wrung her hair again, twisting the water out with a vengeance. "I doubt she said anything intelligent. She was probably just being her usual impertinent self. I'm sorry he had to put up with her."

Adelle looked at her for a long moment, eyes blue and watery. Blair frowned at her. She knew Adelle felt sorry for Madeleine. Sorry that she was burnt, sorry she was a servant. It was silly. Why shouldn't Madeleine be a servant? If she was going to dance in the streets like a pauper—aspiring to be White Flame, honestly—she might as well do the work of paupers.

Blair had felt sorry for her once, when Edith took Madeleine's room away, when she had to work so much harder than the rest of them, for no reward...but Madeleine deserved it. She had such a sharp tongue, and she was lazy really, and if her father didn't even seem to care what happened to her, well, that had to mean something. And anyway, it was just the way things were now.

"I saw Rafe in the cavalry," Adelle said at last.

Blair glanced at her sister, blinking at the change in subject. Yet again, something she didn't want to talk about. Something she could scream about, if it wouldn't have seemed so childish. "Yes," she said with practiced nonchalance, "I saw him also." And he was his usual stupid self as well. He'd seen her watching Ivan, and then gave her a look like—like—well, one of his looks. Like he had a monopoly on who she looked at.

"Are you still upset that he didn't write to you?"

That was just too much. She turned on Adelle with a vengeance. "No, I'm not upset that he didn't write to me. I wouldn't care if he never wrote to me. I wouldn't care if I never saw him again. He could have died in the war for all I care!"

"Blair, you don't mean that," Adelle said quietly, her eyes large. She stared at Blair for another long moment while Blair breathed heavily, and finally she went on. "What I really wanted to talk about, though, is...do you think Lord Luck will come back?"

Blair paused a moment before answering. She didn't need to think about her answer, but Edith wouldn't have said what she was about to. And if their mother didn't say certain things, no one said them. But it was the truth—they all had to know that by now.

"No," she said finally, firmly. "He won't. He doesn't care about Mother. He doesn't even care about Madeleine."

Adelle sighed. "How do you think she'll take it—Mother, I mean?"

Blair shrugged. She didn't think it would change much. Edith was always the same—proud but soft spoken, demanding but calm. "The same as she's ever taken anything. Without a fuss."

"I don't understand why he married her at all if he was just going to run off like this."

"I think it was for money," Blair said, finally putting words to the suspicions she'd had for a while now. "Mother was rich."

Adelle frowned, not connecting the ideas. "Well, so was he."

Blair rose her eyebrows at her sister, crossing her arms. "Supposedly," she said, tilting her head to the side. But there was the ill kept house, the fact that they only had two real servants and couldn't seem to get another. In Shinsworth, they'd had dozens of servants.

She watched Adelle's eyes widen in horror. "You mean he was really broke? Do you think he took all of Mother's money? Are we going to be poor and have to do our own work like Madeleine—or work for someone else to make money?"

Blair shrugged, inwardly rolling her eyes. Adelle always overreacted to everything. "I don't know about that. But I don't think he'll be back. Maybe he stayed in Aschare."

"Who did?" came the soft, composed voice of their mother. The door was open, and Edith walked in, black eyebrows arched across her smooth white skin. She stood with her back straight, taking small, even steps towards them, as ever, a lady. Blast Adelle for leaving the door open.

"Mother—we were just talking—about the soldiers—"

"Which ones?" their mother asked calmly.

Silence filled the room, a hush that seemed forbidden. Blair could have snorted. It was so absurd, that they couldn't speak about the simplest of things. Well, she'd speak of it. Better than Adelle's stammering. "Lord Luck," she said finally, in a steady voice. "He won't come back, will he?"

Edith stiffened. It was barely visible, wouldn't have been noticed at all by an outsider. But Blair knew her mother and could see the way her jaw tightened more than usual and her shoulders were abnormally square. "Oh," she said after a moment. "Arthur."

The two of them said nothing. Blair held her breath, watching her mother for any sign of a stronger reaction. She ought to badmouth him, relinquish him as her husband even. Her eyes were focused on the wall at the other side of the room, holding steady.

"He's still with the army, I suppose. You stepfather is loyal to his country. I expect his return soon."

Edith didn't go on, but Blair kept watching her, a sinking feeling beginning to settle in her stomach. Of course. Edith wouldn't say anything about Lord Luck that would paint him as less than perfect. She knew he didn't care about her. She had to know. They hardly spoke to each other when he was around; he was clearly cold toward her, but more than that she had _proof_.

At Autumn Festival—before Madeleine got burnt, before anyone knew Madeleine was a fire dancer—he'd been there, in the crowd. Blair had seen him first. They'd locked eyes, and then he started to walk away, but before he did, Edith turned, and she saw him. She knew he wasn't with the army, knew he'd lied to her about that much and who knew what else. He'd never written, not so much as two lines.

But Edith was too much of a lady to acknowledge it. If she knew he was in a brothel every night, she wouldn't have breathed a word. It seemed an impossible weight to bear, being a lady.

"Blair, I came to tell you that you have a visitor," Edith said, looking at her now. "Lane let him into the parlor. He introduced himself as Sir Rafe Thornton." She smiled, just a hint of curve in her thin lips. "And Adelle," she said, turning to her younger daughter, "I thought we could take tea together, in the drawing room. Come, dear." She took Adelle's hand, and the two of them strolled away.

Blair watched them go, and then was left alone in her room, blinking. Rafe. The last person in the world she wanted to see right now. But he was sitting in the parlor. She supposed she'd at least have to go down and say _something_ to him.

She stared at the orange-red fire for just a moment longer before making her way out the door, down the hallway, and onto the spiral staircase, considering just what that something should be. Composure seemed like a good tactic for the moment. Edith could stand anything without even raising her voice. If she could just be like that...

She stood up taller as she reached for the door handle, taking in a deep breath. When she saw him, she'd simply say, "Leave," in a very flat, very monotone voice, and she wouldn't let him try to persuade her into actual conversation. She opened the door slowly.

"Blair!" Rafe jumped up and shouted her name before she could utter a single syllable. He had an absurd grin on his face, and he was still dripping wet. She could see he'd nearly soaked the settee already. She wondered what else he would ruin before he left.

"Rafe," she said finally, after just staring became significantly awkward. She then realized that she had not simply said "leave" as she intended.

"Well, are you happy to see me?" Rafe asked. "I'm gloriously glad to see you."

"I'm sure you are," she said, coming a bit farther into the room and closing the door behind her. When he said nothing, she went on, raising her chin a bit higher than usual. "Mother said you introduced yourself as _Sir_ Rafe Thornton. Did they make you a knight? Even with all those desertions?" She raised an eyebrow at him, intending to be cruel.

His lips twitched into a smile. "Indeed they did. Rather a ceremonious title only, I'm afraid. Well, not afraid. I would hate to actually be in full service to the crown every day of my life. As it is, I simply have the honor of knowing that I fought bravely in battle and may go to the royal court whenever I wish. I believe they are allowed to call on me for duty at some point in time, but I doubt they ever actually will. I'm not sure I would answer if they did."

"How very noble of you," Blair said dryly. Rafe was such a blackguard, really. She wasn't sure what she'd ever seen in him.

"Yes, well, I do try," he said. "I did fight like a hero. You would've been proud to see me."

"Somehow, I doubt that. Though at least you only say you fought like one, rather than actually being one. It makes your case somewhat more believable. Not much."

He smiled, a gentle, pleasing sort of smile, until she half wanted to go up to him, stand on her tiptoes and smooth his hair down, run her hands through it until it was dry.

"Blair," he said, in a softer voice, "do you know it's been a year since I've last seen you—to the very day?"

She rose an eyebrow at him and shook her head once. "I didn't know."

"Isn't that something?" His eyes locked on to hers, and she couldn't look away. She felt her heart in her chest—not pounding, really, just...beating, firmly, slowly. She cursed Rafe for always having such an undesired effect on her. Really, he was nothing! There was nothing at all wonderful about him and a good many of awful things about him, and she wished he would just go away.

"It should have been longer than that," she said, just to say something, as he stepped closer to her. "If you'd stayed with the army the whole time like you were supposed to."

"But how could I," he asked, "when you were here all alone?" His hands took hold of hers, and they were warm like the heat from the fire. He was always so warm, and she was always so cold. "I missed you, every day that I was gone."

She looked up at him, into his black eyes—to match his black heart, she always said, but he looked down at her with just that hint of a smile, and all the years of memories seemed like just yesterday. If he'd been gone a year, well, what was that to the twelve years she'd known him? He started to lean down toward her. Their lips met, and for a moment, she just stood there, letting him kiss her. His lips were so warm.

And if it had been like years before, or like the night before he left, she would have wound her arms around him and kissed him back with equal warmth. But it wasn't. And before another moment went by, she remembered precisely why she hated him. She reached up and shoved him away from her. "Get out, Rafe!" she screamed at him. "I never want to see you again!"

He blinked at her a few times and then laughed—a loud guffaw. "My, my, Blair. Prickly. But then, I've never really seen you be pleasant for more than a few minutes at a time. Would you mind telling me, though, what exactly it is that you're so upset about?"

She glared at him. "Everything. I despise you wholly." She walked past him and stood in front of the hearth at the far end of the room. Not that she need the heat quite so much now, but it gave her something to do that looked purposeful.

"Haven't heard that one before," Rafe said with a dry tone, and she glanced at him with a hard frown. He had to throw it in her face that she threw him out and took him back time and again. Well, this would be different. He'd been gone a year, and she was over him. She wouldn't let herself fall into the same traps so easily.

After a moment, he came to stand next to her. She didn't look at him, but she could feel his eyes on her and saw him stroking his unshaven chin out of the corner of her eye. She wouldn't look at him.

"Did you fare well, while I was gone?"

She glanced at him then. He had a thoughtful expression on his face, and she hated him a little bit more for pretending like he actually cared. "Of course I did. Why wouldn't I?"

"You don't look very...happy."

"That's just because you're here," she said, simply, as if he was the reason for all her troubles. She even smiled a little as she said it. He might as well be.

He was silent another long moment, before asking, "Did you enjoy the procession?"

She gave a dry laugh. "No. It was long and cold and miserable."

"Funny," he said, and she could hear the hints of a chortle in his voice. "When I happened to see you, you didn't look all together miserable. In fact you looked rather...serene."

She glanced at him but didn't say anything and looked away again just as quickly. She didn't care about Rafe, so there was no reason for her to explain herself to him. He never explained himself, anyway.

"I believe the object of your attention was the crown prince. Jog any memories?"

"He's not an object," she said, taking a step away from him. She glanced around, before sitting down in the large chair by the bookshelf. "I know you tend to think of everyone as objects, Rafe, but remember we're not all like you."

Rafe stared at her. At length, he crossed his arms over his chest. "Insults aside, Blair. You...fancy him?"

She shrugged. "What does it matter to you?"

He took a few steps toward her. "As I recall," he sat down at the footstool in front of her, "_darling_, last time I was here, your fancy was caught elsewhere. Or have you forgotten our beautiful vows in the moonlight?"

She laughed, rather merrily. Rafe always tried to make it seem like there was some sacred bond between the two of them. If it was so sacred and beautiful, he could have at least tried to keep in touch with her. "I don't recall making any vows to you, beautiful or otherwise. The only think I recall is you promising to write to me, which you didn't, ever. So as far as I can tell, all vows are off."

"So that's what you're so miffed about!" Rafe said, slapping his thigh. He stood up in a jovial manner, smiling again.

"I'm not miffed about it," she said, frowning at his sudden apparent happiness. She had been enjoying the way he seemed nearly distraught. "I was just pointing out a fact. If I was ever miffed about it, I'm quite over it by now."

He laughed, again. "My darling queen of ice, you are quite miffed about it still. I can tell. But tell me, Blair, did you ever really expect me to write to you? I mean, honestly, me, writing letters?"

She frowned a little harder. "Well—you did promise." She knew her strangled tone wasn't quite believable. And she supposed, deep down, she knew he'd never write to her. Not Rafe Thornton. He didn't write letters. He didn't _care_ enough to write letters, and he certainly never meant half of what he said to her. That was what she hated him for, really, making her swoon against her better judgment—and she hated herself for actually believing him.

"Yes," he said, "but a promise is only a promise, you know. And I've never enjoyed writing. Surely you realized I'd never actually sit down and pen a letter."

She squared her jaw. "Well," she said in a practiced light tone, "it doesn't matter much anymore. I'm moved on from you, Rafe."

"Onto bigger and better things?"

She sniffed. He had to make everything sound so vile. "Well. Why shouldn't I?"

He gave something between a snort and a sigh and sat down again on the footstool. "Blair, I feel I should warn you. About Ivan."

Now it was her turn to snort. Rafe looked so serious about it, too. "What about him? Is he a werewolf, or something?"

"He has nightmares," Rafe said, ignoring her humor. "Horrible nightmares that make him shout in his sleep and wake in a cold sweat. And...he's not...there, all together. Oh, I don't mean he's stupid, or even slow, but...it's like he's in shock. Like he just can't quite believe where he is or anything that's going on around him. He's stuck in his own little world."

"Well, his twin brother did just die, Rafe. I'm sure he'll be fine eventually."

"He hasn't gotten over it these seven months. Isn't that a bit abnormal? When your father died—"

She flinched a little at the mention of that, but Rafe went on.

"You recovered much quicker than that. Your mother—she remarried in little more than a year. I'm not saying anything bad about him. I like the man, but Blair...he's not for you."

"What do you mean, he's not for me?" she asked, narrowing her eyes. She was annoyed—annoyed that Rafe seemed to have this fixed idea that she and Ivan were not the same type of people, that she and he were. "He's for anyone he takes a fancy to."

"Well, it won't be you. It couldn't be. You'd overrun him, Blair. With all your sharp words, and you've problems enough of your own without having to bother with his."

She rolled her eyes. "Rafe, if you're going to sit here and insult me all day, you might as well just leave. Actually," she said, sitting a bit straighter and smoother her skirt, "you might as well just leave now. I don't want to see you anymore."

Rafe stared at her for a moment with the same tense expression on his face that he'd had this whole time since he'd begun to speak of Ivan. Then he seemed to shake it off and gave a short laugh. "I hope to never forget your face when you're pretending to be a dignified woman, Blair." He stood up. "Just one more thing before I go. Has your stepfather returned yet?"

She gave him a sharp glance. What did he know about her stepfather? "No."

He stroked his chin again. "Funny," he murmured. "I'd think he'd want to keep up his charade."

"What charade?" she asked, leaning forward in her chair. "If you know something about my stepfather, Rafe, you'd better tell me."

He glanced at her and smiled. "Nothing for you to worry your pretty little head about."

She snapped up from her seat and grabbed onto his arm with all the force she could manage. She wouldn't be patronized. Not by anyone and certainly not by Rafe. "Don't you pretty little head me, Rafe Thornton. Tell me what you know, and tell me now."

His smile just grew. "I saw him, is all. In the forest. Rather apart from the army. It seemed suspicious. I hadn't seen him at all until then."

She stared up at him, not quite grasping the situation.

"In any case, I should think he'd be back soon, if my suspicions are anywhere near correct. Tell your mother that, if you will. Not the suspicions bit, though. I've really no idea what he's up to; I just know he's up to something. Now, dear, I will leave you, but first—" He leaned down and kissed her on the lips, not quite with the passion as before, but a firm, definite kiss. It was over before she had the chance to slap him, and then he simply swaggered away. Out the door and gone.

She frowned and crossed her arms over her chest. She would have asked him what he meant about Lord Luck if he'd stayed a moment longer, but...well, good riddance.

* * *

The step family. And...Rafe. Do tell me what you think, and as always, thank you for reading.


	5. Chapter 5

Ivan woke up shivering. He was in a bed that was too small for him, twisted in an uncomfortable position, wrapped in a gray blanket. Pale light was beginning to shine through the window to his right. Beside him was another bed, the same size, with a matching gray blanket. It was empty.

For a moment, it felt like a dream. A bizarre dream leading him back into his childhood, but then he remembered. They were in Saimes, now. The citizen-soldiers had all returned home, and the rest of the army was in the barracks now, separate from himself. He was a prince, not a soldier. And he was alone.

He hadn't been to Saimes in a long time. Saimes was where he'd been when the war began, when he and Thaddeus played in the courtyard as General Wescott rode in with the news, before he was a general at all. This was where it all began.

He got out of bed slowly and went to look out the window between the two beds. Outside, he could see the courtyard, though it wasn't the courtyard he knew. The once tall, proud wall was cracked and crumbling as vines crawled over it and forced their way between stones. His mother's garden, once full of bright flowers and neatly trimmed bushes, now looked like a witch's lair, tangled and angry. The clearing where he and Thaddeus had played wasn't a clearing at all. Brush had taken it, so it looked more like the wilderness he'd spent so much time marching through than the childhood home he remembered.

He turned away from the window.

The room seemed faded now. Last night he'd barely looked at it. All he'd wanted was to crawl into bed, to be warm and dry. Now, in the morning light, he could see the sheen of dust that coated everything. He ran his finger over the headboard of his bed, and his skin came back a light gray. He remembered that his blanket used to be blue.

Two dressers lined the room on the side opposite the beds, and he walked to the one on his side and opened the top drawer. Inside, it was full of oddments – colorful stones, spinning tops, acorns. On top was a sheet of yellowed paper. He took it out and examined the sloppy handwriting.

_Ivan,_

_Muther says I must work on my riting skills. She says you will pass me up on our learning. This will just not do, she says. So I'm riting to you to let you know that my riting skills are just as good as yours ever will bee. Oh who am I joshing? You always rite better then me. But I can kill you in War any day. So keep your riting. I'll make up for my lack of skills._

_Muther just came in and said no. I've got to learn to rite to. Will you help me learn as good as you? I'll help you fight in War better. Then I'll rite nice letters sometime and you'll be able to kill me sometime. Deal?_

_Thaddeus_

For a moment, he smiled. He remembered reading the letter for the first time, when Thaddeus had shoved it onto his desk and stood there with crossed arms while he read. He'd agreed to the proposition and given Thaddeus a few short writing lessons, interspersed between much longer war lessons – lessons that were not so different from simply playing the game itself.

And he had gotten better at war. More so when he was actually trained for it. He looked down at the letter again and saw that his hands were trembling. _You'll be able to kill me sometime. _He dropped the letter and slammed the drawer shut.

He heard a knock on the door, followed by his mother's voice. "Ivan?"

He took in a deep breath of air, feeling a wave of panic assaulting him. What if she knew? What if she could read it in his face – had read it months ago? What if –

"Are you awake, dear?"

Fear washed away with the sound of her voice. His mother would never believe him capable of murdering anyone, much less his twin brother. She trusted him. He knew that. "Yes – yes. I'm up."

"May I come in?"

He stood paralyzed for a moment, trying to create a persona of himself, the way his mother needed to see him. A prince – a son – comforting his mother. He picked his shirt off the floor where he'd left it last night and dropped it over his torso before moving to the door.

When he opened it, she was there with her blue eyes and golden hair, as she'd been his whole life. She looked paler now, though. But she smiled at him, as always. "Ivan," she said.

"Mother," he said, as he stepped away from the door, letting her enter into the room.

She looked around the room as she entered into it, eyes falling on the window, on his bed with the messed sheet and blanket, on his dresser, and then the other side of the room. Her lips pursed into a thin line as she looked at the empty bed, the abandoned dresser. Finally, her eyes moved back to him. "How are you doing, Ivan?" she asked. "Are you all right?"

"I'm—fine," he said in a jolting way, nodding his head. He wished he could sound more fine. He didn't feel convincing in his role of the conquering hero. He wondered that everyone didn't see through him at a simple glance.

His mother came toward him, a small, sad smile on her face. "Of course," she said. "You're so strong, Ivan." She put her hands on his shoulders as she stood looking at him; it was a reach up for her. "My baby boy. Let me hold you."

He bent down so she could pull him into a tight hug, and he put his arms around her, trying to stop himself from shaking and blurting out everything. He wished he could simply hug his mother, without worrying about keeping up a facade.

Finally, she released him and moved slightly a way. "I'm sorry," she said, and there were tears in her eyes.

He shook his head – he should have been the one apologizing. He killed her son. His twin brother.

"I suppose I just wanted to make sure you were all right because...I'm not." She gave a forced laugh and looked around the room again, at the made up bed beside his. "I remember when you were both so small. You and Thaddeus loved this castle. Every spring, as soon as we got here, you'd run to your rooms for whatever toys were left here, and then you'd race to the courtyard to play." She moved to the window and looked out, where the wall was crumbling and the garden in ruins. She glanced back at him. "Do you remember, Ivan?"

He shook his head. "Only a little," he said, coming to stand beside her. "I remember...we played War in the courtyard. We'd find sticks and carve them down with kitchen knives to look like swords. Thaddeus always won."

"Yes, both of you were always so zealous about war, even then" she said, turning to him with eyes suddenly sharp as daggers.

He looked down, guilty again. She blamed him. His mother blamed him, and she didn't even know the half of it. Maybe if they hadn't played war back then...maybe...if things had just been different, somehow. When they were fighting, if he hadn't fought back, she'd at least have Thaddeus to talk to now. Thaddeus was better at talking.

"Ivan," she said, and he felt her hand on his arm. He looked at her, and her eyes were softer now. She shook her head, very slightly. "I'm sorry," she said, apologizing again for something that was his fault. "Don't—don't blame yourself. There was nothing you could have done. Not in that battle, not...when you were children." She sighed as she glanced out the courtyard again and then back to him, facing him completely. "I'm just glad I still have you."

He swallowed hard under her fixed gaze, that sad smile on her mouth – but it was still a smile. She still found something to be glad about: him. Her only remaining son. The murderer. He looked down at the floor again. He didn't deserve her love. He didn't deserve to have her even look at him like that.

"M—Mother," he said, looking back into her eyes. He would tell her everything and let her be the judge. And if she hated him and disowned him as her son, then that was her right, but he couldn't just stand here claiming a love that shouldn't have belonged to him.

As he opened his mouth, another knock sounded against the door. "Sidonie? Ivan? Are you both there?" It was his father. He looked at the door nervously. Somehow, telling his father seemed worse than telling his mother.

His mother spoke first. "Yes, dear. Come in." She glanced at Ivan and gave another smile. "We can talk more later, if you want to talk alone."

Then his father was in the room, his boisterous morning self. "Well, there's my family! I woke up wondering what happened. It's quite a bit different from tents, isn't it?"

His mother smiled as she moved closer to his father – it was a real smile, Ivan noted. She was happy to see her husband, and looking at him wouldn't always remind her of what she'd lost. Ivan looked too much like Thaddeus for her to ever forget. "Yes, quite."

"And how are we all liking the castle so far?" the king asked, putting one hand on Ivan's shoulder and the other on his wife's. "This is our home now, Ivan. No more wandering through two different countries. Not even any switching castles in our own country anymore. This is it. We've made it."

Ivan didn't answer. His mind was stuck on the word – home. Thaddeus had said that...at home, someday, they could just be brothers, instead of killers. That was a home he'd wanted. He'd never been totally used to the idea of going to live somewhere permanently, of being the crown prince, but he wanted somewhere where he and Thaddeus could simply be brothers. It could never happen now.

"Ivan?" his father said, frowning at his lack of response.

He looked up, opened his mouth, didn't know what to say. Hardly knew what the question was.

"I think it'll take some getting used to," his mother said, stepping in on his behalf. She sent a small smile his way before looking back to the king. "We need to rearrange some things. These beds were giant when the boys were five, but they're a bit small now. Ivan needs a room fitting for a crown prince. And everything's rather dusty."

The king nodded, dropping his hands to his sides as he moved closer to the window. "And falling apart," he said. "I'm afraid most of the staff left during the war. We had to use most of our money for the army's expenses. With wages so low for the servants, their jobs weren't worth it. The castle's practically abandoned. If they hadn't been forewarned we were coming, I don't think there would've been anyone to lower the drawbridge for us last night."

Ivan watched his father's face grow tighter, into hard lines. His mother came to stand beside him and slipped her hand into her husband's. "We can hire more staff," she said, offering a smile. "We'll rebuild."

The king's face changed as he looked as his wife, softening into a gentle smile. "Yes," he said. Then louder, "Yes. We will." He whirled around to face Ivan. "Come. Both of you." He glanced at the queen again. "I want to show you something."

Ivan exchanged glances with his mother again before following the king. He led them out the door and down the hallway until they reached another door that took them into the open air where a staircase led to the wall that surrounded the castle. At the top, wind gusted through Ivan's shirt but his father marched straight down the walkway until they reached the center between two towers.

"Now look at our castle," the king said, and Ivan looked. It seemed to him like most of it was covered in vines and a large part of it was cracking apart. "I know it doesn't look like much," the king went on, "but then turn around."

The three of them turned, and Ivan and his mother followed the king to the other side of the wall, looking away from the castle, towards Saimes. Beneath them was the old drawbridge and the moat, swollen with rainwater. Farther away, he could see all the buildings of the town surrounded by green fields and the darker forests farther away and the shining blue of the river just beyond the town.

"This is our country," the king said, staring out at it. "The people of Saimes – everything they do, everything they spend their life working for is a part of our country – and not just them. Not just what we can see here – all the way to the horizon and past. We ensured Wyndl's freedom from the Ascharans, but now we've got to claim it by shaping Wyndl into a land that was worth the fight, worth the death."

His father paused, and Ivan glanced at him. He felt like he should say something in agreement, something equally inspiring, but...the wind blew in his face, and he wasn't inspired. He didn't feel a great love for Wyndl. He wasn't really sure he'd even fought for his country. He'd fought because...it was what was expected of him.

"Thaddeus fought and died for this country," the king said, staring into the wind, "alongside many great men. I want to ensure that Wyndl is a place they can be proud to have died for."

He had tears in his eyes when he looked back at Ivan, and once again Ivan's heart began to race. Everything inside him was screaming _murderer_ at himself, but he couldn't speak. His father wanted him to be a great prince – a great king someday, and he couldn't ruin all his father's hopes and dreams like that. And he couldn't ruin Thaddeus's good name after what the king had said about him. He couldn't stand to break his father's heart twice by telling the truth.

The king smiled at him. "I'm sorry to bring up your brother now, in such a hard time for all of us." He took a step toward Ivan and put a hand on his shoulder. "I just want you to understand that being a king, or even just a prince, isn't about giving orders or having power. It's about giving all you have for your people – those who went before you and those now and those to come – and everything they've fought for."

Ivan nodded; it was all he could do – all he could say – to something like that. He glanced at his mother, and she smiled at him as the king let go of his shoulder.

"Anyway," the king went on, giving a lighter smile, "your mother and I would like you to get married."

Ivan felt his face drain. Get married. Now? They'd just got back. He didn't even know any women. He still had nightmares almost every night.

"For goodness' sake, Nicholas, don't frighten him," his mother said quickly, stepping alongside her husband. "Not right away, Ivan. There's no need to panic. It's just something to be thinking about."

"Yes, yes," his father agreed, nodding his head. "Not right away. We don't want you to rush your decision. You'll need time to meet several girls and get to know them, and eventually make the right choice for a wife."

"Why – why now?" Ivan managed to stammer. "We've just returned. Shouldn't I...wait for things to settle down a bit?"

"I'm afraid that is the very reason it needs to be soon," the king said. "Wyndl isn't a stable country, Ivan. We've only just returned, and the treaty with Aschare is barely signed. People are still worried. Particularly with Thaddeus's death, our country is in unrest. You're in line for the throne after I am, but if anything were to happen to you...it would be a power struggle. You need an heir, to give stability to the country, confidence to the people. A royal wedding would bring the country together and show the people that we have a future."

He couldn't say anything. He supposed...they had a point. When he saw Lord Luck and the others in the forest, it seemed like they were up to something. He hadn't mentioned the instance to anyone, and he hoped nothing would come of it, but...it would be good to have someone in line for the throne after him.

But the idea of having a wife – and a family – it seemed impossible. He could scarcely deal with himself at the moment. He woke up in cold sweats in the middle of the night, dreaming of Thaddeus. His wife would think him mad. His wife. Even the phrase sounded...terrifying. Husbands and wives were supposed to be close to each other, but...he couldn't be close to anybody. He couldn't tell her...couldn't tell anyone. But if he didn't tell his own wife...he'd feel like a liar, putting on the face of a prince and forcing some poor woman to marry a murderer without knowing it. He just – he wasn't anywhere near ready to have a family right now.

"You'll have time," his mother said again, touching his arm with a smile. "There are plenty of other things to see to more immediately, anyway. The servants, in particular." She gave the king a meaningfully glance.

"Yes," his father said, "we'll be sending messengers out to Saimes as soon as possible, advertising for work here. I'm sure there are plenty of families that could use the money. We'll send the army to find a good staff if we have to. Or put _them_ to work cleaning." He laughed. "That would be quite a change for General Wescott, certainly. But he needs something to do now that the war is over."

His parents went on talking about staff and cleaning and refurnishing, but Ivan barely heard them. They wanted him to get married. Him, married. He couldn't imagine it. All he wanted...was to disappear.

* * *

Rafe was back at the Thornton estate, and he was bored. He lived in the middle of nowhere, he thought, glancing down the long road leading up to the house he shared with his father. He was sitting on this road, in fact, and noted that it seemed particularly long and winding today. More than he remembered.

He sighed as he leaned back and lay on the road. It wasn't very comfortable. He should have moved to some grass somewhere, but that would have required moving. He was feeling especially lazy today, which probably contributed to his boredom, but then again, his boredom also contributed to his laziness, he felt. Vicious circle, to be sure.

In any case, there was absolutely nothing to do. His father wanted him to stick around for a few days. The old man complained for an hour about how Rafe was always dashing off someplace, and even before this year of being in the army, he'd hardly seen his son for the past several years, and he just wanted some time for them together.

Together doing what? After the hour of complaints, there hadn't been much else to talk about, so Rafe sauntered off to view the estate. There wasn't a whole lot to see. Nice stables; he'd always liked horses, and his father did have the best. Perhaps he'd go riding later, but for now he just wanted to do nothing.

He did nothing for several more moments, staring up at the blue sky, and sighed again. It wasn't that living in the middle of nowhere was so bad. It meant that when he went visiting, he could stay extra long just out of necessity. But when he was home...there was nothing to do.

He supposed even if he sneaked away, it was too soon to visit Blair again. He could go to the castle and see Ivan, but when he went there, he wanted to stay for a longer time. And he'd heard the castle wasn't much for upkeep anyway. He'd go there when it was nice, refurnished, comfortable. A full fledged visit to royalty ought to be comfortable.

So for now... there was nothing but the long dirt road, the sky, and the thick trees around him. What a nice day.

When he heard the sound of hoofbeats on the road, he jumped to his feet. A visitor, out here? They never had visitors. No one ever even just passed by incidentally. But sure enough, there was a man on a horse cantering up the road. Pity it wasn't a woman.

As the figure drew closer, he began to make out features, and...that was Lord Luck; he was sure of it, though what the man would possibly be doing out here, he had no idea. He scratched his hair a little and moved to the side of the road.

Lord Luck raised his hand in greeting when he was a bit closer, but Rafe didn't return the wave. He didn't like Lord Luck, and he intended to keep that clear. He simply just watched as the man got closer and closer until finally he reigned his horse in when he reached Rafe.

"You missed your house," Rafe said, watching the man. "By a lot."

Lord Luck gave a short laugh. He seemed actually amused and fairly pleasant, actually, which seemed strange. "I wasn't aiming for my house, Rafe."

"Well. Good. Wouldn't want you to be so lost." He stuck his hands in his pockets and walked around a little bit, not really going anywhere, just back and forth across the road. Luck was watching him, like some kind of animal ready to pounce. It was slightly unnerving.

"Rafe," Lord Luck said finally, "I came here to see you."

Rafe stopped pacing and looked at the lord, raising one eyebrow. "Well, you saw me. Hope you enjoyed it. Now if you'll excuse me..." He turned and started walking up the road, towards his house. He had no desire to actual hold a conversation with that man. After seeing him holding that meeting in the forest, he felt very wary of him. The only thing he would ever even consider talking to Lord Luck about was –

"Have you seen Blair since you got back?"

– that. He stopped and turned around slowly. "I saw her yesterday."

"Is she well?"

"She's fine." He paused and considered walking away again. But he did feel, for Blair's sake at least, he should try to figure out what the man was up to. "I don't suppose you've seen her, or any of them."

"Not yet," Lord Luck said, giving an apologetic shrug. "I still have war business that needs to be settled."

"Ah. And what business would that be? Abandoning your family and the army so you can go...have secret campfire meetings?"

Lord Luck laughed again, heartily this time. "Oh, Rafe. Always so sharp. That's what I like about you."

Rafe gave a mock salute. This was not quite the same Lord Luck he'd seen in the forest, but he still didn't like the man. "Always ready to gain your approval, my lord. But if that's all you came to say, I'm afraid I have my own business – "

"Rafe, do you know who's next in line for the ascension of the throne after Ivan?"

He stopped suddenly and stared at Lord Luck, raising an eyebrow. This was more like what he'd heard at the campfire. This was what Lord Luck was up to...but he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to hear it. Getting caught up in something like treason was not something he was interested in. He shook his head. "Don't know, don't care. Ivan seems quite healthy to me."

"But is he fit to rule a country?" Lord Luck asked. "Could you honestly call Ivan a leader?"

Rafe shrugged. The man had a point there. Ivan wasn't much of a leader, but it didn't really seem like cause for treason.

"Rafe," Lord Luck said, his voice hushed now like he was confiding a secret, "what would you say if I told you that Ivan murdered his own twin brother."

He blinked once and then snorted. If this conversation had seemed troubling at first, it was now simply amusing. Ivan, murdering Thaddeus? Ludicrous. "I'd say good one. If anything, Thaddeus would've been more likely to kill Ivan than the other way around."

"Yes," Lord Luck said, "that's what we thought."

He blinked again. He hadn't been serious, but Lord Luck looked serious. _That's what we thought. _That sounded suspiciously like anarchy to him. It sounded like a plan. A ruined one now maybe, but...still, he didn't want to touch it. "Look," he said, "I don't know what you're up to, and I don't know what you want with me, but all I want is to be left alone. I'll mind my own business if you stay away from mine."

Lord Luck smiled. "You love Blair, don't you, Rafe?"

His hands jerked into fists. "What's that have to do with anything?" he asked. Blair had nothing to do with this, whatever this was, and Lord Luck would have to answer to him if she was brought into it.

Lord Luck laughed. "That's what I thought. But does she reciprocate your feelings? Or is her attention...elsewhere? On the crown, maybe?"

His eyes snapped to Lord Luck's face. He hadn't seen the man at the procession, and yet...

"If – in theory, Rafe, this is only in theory – if both King Nicholas and Prince Ivan were to be killed, there would be a struggle. There are no relatives close enough and strong enough to immediately take the throne. Anyone could have it. The strongest..." he paused, "no, the sharpest man would win."

Rafe stared. He wasn't entirely sure what Lord Luck was implying, but...well, he had an idea. And he snorted at it. "I wouldn't be king if I had the opportunity. Too much duty. Too little leisure. I'm completely ill suited to the job."

Lord Luck shrugged. "King's just a title, Rafe. The job can be anything you want."

He laughed. "Are you suggesting I become a pawn king?"

"I'm not suggesting anything. I'm only mentioning various things. Prince Ivan seems to have little enough backbone, but it's hard to compete with crown prince, if Blair's got her heart set on him."

"I'm not concerned," Rafe said, sticking his hands back in his pockets.

"Good," Lord Luck said. "A cool head shows wisdom." He nodded to Rafe once and then swung himself back onto his saddle. "Just some things to think about, Rafe. I'll be home now, if you ever want to discuss anything. Farewell." And with that, he was off, racing back down the road.

Rafe crossed his arms as he watched him go. It was a lousy conversation, he thought. Interesting, maybe, but lousy. He didn't like the implications. Anarchy was something he wasn't going to get involved in. Not worth it. He was much better on his own, relaxing. He looked around again and took in a deep breath, letting it out in another sigh. Back to doing nothing.


	6. Chapter 6

Madeleine shifted the bundle of clothes in her arms, attempting to move the wetter areas to face outwards and the dryer areas towards herself. She shivered as she walked. The sun was fading out of sight, and the river had not quite been warm. She should have gotten an earlier start on the laundry, and then the clothes would have been able to dry, but after scrubbing all the floors in the house and dusting nearly every room, there just wasn't much time.

Blair was cruel to order her clothes washed today, on top of everything else Edith wanted done. If she had just waited until later in the week, it probably would have been warmer, too, but Blair wanted her clothes washed now. She'd seemed more irritable than usual today, for reasons Madeleine couldn't quite comprehend. She'd thought Blair might be easier to get along with now that the war was over. She'd be able to see Rafe now. Though, perhaps that would just put her in a worse mood. It was difficult to tell with her, sometimes.

As she came around the side of the house, towards the front, the door opened, and there was Blair, crossing her arms over her chest. "There you are! It took you long enough. Did you get my clothes clean?"

"Yes," Madeleine said, coming up to the step so that she stood just below Blair. "Would you like to take them?" She held the bundle out so that the clothes just brushed Blair's arm.

Blair took a step back. "No. Hang them up somewhere. Earth and sky, they're all soaked! Didn't you let them dry at all?"

"I didn't have time," Madeleine said, walking away from the house to the fence that blocked it off from the road. Carefully, she leaned the pile of clothes against a post and began to pull items of clothing away from the mass, draping them over the wooden beams.

"Well, maybe if you weren't so lazy and worked a bit faster, you would actually get things done on time."

Blair's voice was biting, but Madeleine was not fazed. Blair was prone to these sort of speeches, and yesterday had put her in too good of a mood to be bothered. Spending the day with Simon all day with Simon, shirking her duties - even with the rain - was lovely. She gave a small smile as she went on draping the clothes.

"I hope that fence is clean," Blair went on, "and I don't want all my shifts out there for anyone to see as they ride past."

"No one's going to ride past tonight. If they did, they wouldn't see them anyhow. It gets dark at night, you know. I'll pick them up early in the morning."

Blair was silent for a long moment, but Madeleine could feel her stepsister's eyes watching her as she worked. It had been like this all day. While she scrubbed the floor, dusted, served the noon meal. "Madeleine," Blair finally said, "at the procession yesterday...what did you and Prince Ivan say to each other?"

Madeleine stopped working. The remaining clothes were balanced precariously between the fence and herself, and she turned to look at Blair, whose lips were set in a thin, tight line and whose eyes were searching hers in earnest. She turned back to the clothes and smirked. This was just too good of a situation to pass up. "Does it matter?" she called back over her shoulder. "We're getting married next week."

She stifled a small giggle at the very idea. Prince Ivan was rather her favorite person in the world, at the moment. He had looked so very grave as he imparted his wise, obvious advice to her.

Blair was still staring when Madeleine glanced back at her. "You're such an absurd liar," she said finally. "And you shouldn't speak so flippantly of the crown prince. You could hang for spreading lies about him."

Madeleine laughed. She seriously doubted that. And she was beyond amused that Blair seemed to actually be jealous of the two sentence exchange she'd had with the prince. Blair, who never missed a chance to insult her or scream in her face, was jealous of her - a scarred, ugly servant girl - who wouldn't have even been a servant girl if it wasn't for Blair's own mother making her into one.

"I don't see why it matters to you," she said, returning to her clothes draping. "Hasn't Rafe come to see you yet?"

She turned around to watch this, to see Blair's face turn white and then red as her eyes narrowed into a glare. "That is none of your business," she said in a slow, determined tone.

"Well," Madeleine said as she hung up the last of the clothing, "perhaps Prince Ivan is none of your business." She said this in a rather gentle reprimanding way and then smiled a sweet, charming smile as she smoothed the sleeve of one of Blair's dresses.

"Agh!" Blair's frustrations exploded into a verbal outburst. "You're such a - such an uppity little - "

At that moment, Edith appeared in the doorway, and Madeleine felt her whole body stiffen at the sight of her stepmother. Blair could scream and shout, had even hit her once or twice, but Blair didn't have any real power. She could talk back to Blair; they could have catty fights every day, and it would never change anything. But with Edith...Edith was different.

"Is something wrong, Blair?" Edith asked in her usual soft voice.

"Oh, Mother," Blair said, turning as she finally realized they weren't alone. "No, nothing's wrong, I just..." Her eyes fastened on Madeleine, and she seemed to rearrange herself, smiling slightly as she crossed her arms over her chest and leaned into the doorway. "I think Madeleine's been terribly lazy today. She didn't head to the river until late for the laundry, and now all our clothes are still wet. If it rains tonight, they'll get mildew on them and start to smell."

Edith's eyes traveled from Blair to Madeline and back to Blair, frowning a little. "Blair, stand up straight. Ladies don't lean against walls. And don't cross your arms. It's not becoming, dear."

Madeleine almost smiled at the flush on Blair's face as she dropped her arms and stepped away from the doorway. But then Edith stepped outside, her gaze focused on Madeleine only, and she didn't dare to smile.

"Is this true, Madeleine? Were you lazy today?"

"No, ma'am," she said, in a cursedly subordinate tone. "I was late with the laundry because I was scrubbing the floors and dusting every room, in addition to my usual chores. I did everything you ordered. The house hasn't been this clean all winter."

"Good," Edith said. "But there's still more to do. The linens need to be aired out, the rugs and curtains need to be washed, and the furniture could be cleaned. And I want the attic to be cleaned out and reorganized. You can work on all that tomorrow. And also..." Here she paused, for a moment sounding unsure of herself.

Madeleine looked at her.

"As you know, Madeleine, your father has not yet returned from the war."

When she paused again, Madeleine couldn't help herself. "Do you honestly think he will?" she asked. "He doesn't care about us. Not you or me or anyone. He's not coming back."

Edith's face stayed unchanged for a long moment. Her mouth was open, ready to speak, but no sound came out. Finally, she shut it and then reopened it, ignoring Madeleine's comment completely. "If your father has not returned by tomorrow, I want you to go ask about him. Talk to all the lords in the area that have come back from war. Someone should know something."

Madeleine stared. The lords in the area - none of them had seen her. To go talk to them at all would be one thing, encroaching on their time, an unimportant servant. Edith would get better results going herself. But for her to go now, with her scars, to parade in front of all these men - "He's not coming back," she said again, though she knew Edith wouldn't listen. She glanced at Blair who was watching Edith also, and she knew that Blair agreed with her, knew that he didn't care. Edith had to know it too; she just wouldn't accept it.

"They won't listen to me," Madeleine said. Her voice was pleading; she hated the way she sounded, hated being at the mercy of someone else. "They probably won't even see me. If you went, they'd see you. You're his wife."

"You're his daughter," Edith said, and her voice told Madeleine all she needed to know. This task, this humiliation would be a punishment for being his daughter, the daughter of a man who had married Edith and left her and never cared for her at all. It had nothing to do with Madeleine herself and everything to do with her father.

On the road, the clip-clop of a horse's hooves sounded against the dirt. Madeleine turned and saw a dark haired man on a horse riding toward them. When she glanced at Edith, the woman's hand was at her throat, and Blair's mouth was slightly open. They were all staring. She shook her head slightly. It couldn't be him. He left them. He left her, when she was burning alive. He wouldn't come back. When he reached the gate, he swung off his saddle and stood there in front of them, reigns in hand. It was him.

"A-Arthur," Edith said. Her voice cracked and stammered like Madeleine had never heard it. Her lips were parted and her face was white like a sheet.

"Edith," he said, and it was his voice. Her father's voice.

"You're home," Edith said.

"Yes," he said, "I'm home." He didn't even look at her. He was right there on the other side of the fence, her father, so close she could have touched him if she wanted to. She didn't want to, but he didn't even glance in her direction. "I'm sorry I'm a bit late," he went on after a moment. "I know most of the army came home yesterday, but I still had some business to attend to."

Madeleine almost snorted. He had "business" to attend to. That was a poor excuse if she ever heard one.

Edith said nothing. Her face was still white, and her eyes were fixed on her husband. She looked - well, vulnerable, almost, in a way Madeleine had never seen her. "I see," she said after a long moment.

"Could someone, perhaps, take my horse...?" Lord Luck said, opening the gate and making his way through.

"Yes, of course," Edith said. "Madeleine..." She looked over at Madeleine and then stopped speaking, seeming to suddenly remember that this was Madeleine's father who'd arrived.

He looked at her then. She could feel his eyes on her scars, traveling down her cheek to her throat where they disappeared under her neckline. But there was no expression in his face. No pity, no remorse. He looked like he was looking at a stranger. "Yes, Madeleine, please," he said finally. "And then perhaps we can all have supper together." He glanced at Edith.

"Yes," Edith said, "that would be - "

"I don't eat with them," Madeleine interrupted, crossing her arms as she stared at her father. "Or don't you remember?"

He looked at her again, and she squared her jaw, raised her chin slightly, stared unblinking into his eyes. The last time he'd been there for dinner was over a year ago, and she hadn't eaten with them then. She never ate with her step family, not since the first time he'd been away after he married Edith, and when he came back, he never even asked about it. He didn't care.

"Well," he said, "perhaps you would make an exception tonight."

She didn't move. For a long moment, she wanted to slap him. But then, why waste her arm on someone like him? She stepped forward and took the reigns, gliding past him without a word.

She walked quickly to the stable behind the house, flung the door open and pulled the horse inside behind her. "Stupid horse," she said, as she led it to one of the stalls. "This stable's been empty for two years, and then you come, and now it'll have to be cleaned out every day, I suppose. More work that I don't want to do."

The horse looked at her as she shut the gate in front of it. It was a brown horse with a long white stripe down its nose, and big black eyes. It was pretty, she supposed, but she'd never been around horses, and she wasn't moved.

She shook her head. "I'm not going to feed you," she said to it. "Or unsaddle you. No one told me to do that. It's not my responsibility." She crossed her arms, considered how absurd she probably looked at the moment, and turned on her heel to leave the stable.

As she opened the door, she nearly ran into Lane, who took a reeling step backward upon seeing her. "Miss Madeleine," he said. "I didn't know you were in here."

"I wasn't until just now," she said. "My father's back, if you didn't already know. Do something about his horse." With that, she swept past him toward the house.

She was about ten feet away before she heard him call out, "Your father's back?"

She stopped walking and turned slowly around to face him. "Yes, that's what I said, isn't it?"

"Well - yes, Miss Madeleine." He looked at her a moment before smiling. "Our salaries ought to go up now, eh? He should have money for his war services and advisement to the king."

Madeleine shrugged at him. "I don't get a salary. I wouldn't know." Before Lane could say anything else, she turned back around and continued walking to the house.

In the front entryway, she paused, hesitating. The kitchen was on her left, and the dining room was down the hall on her right. She didn't want to eat dinner with them. She usually ate by herself sometime between when her stepfamily ate and when Lane and Sara ate together. But doing that tonight would seem like she was just avoiding him, and she wouldn't make herself look weak like that.

With a sigh, she kept walking down the hall and turned to her right as she reached the dining room doorway. They were all sitting already. Blair and Adelle were seated next to each other with Edith on Adelle's other side. Her father was across from Edith, leaving the only open spot right next to him. She walked there slowly, pulled the chair out, and sat down. She didn't look at him.

"Well, now that we're all here," he said beside her, "tell me, how have things been while I was away?"

You weren't away the whole time, Madeleine thought. You were here at Autumn Festival. She said nothing, and neither did anyone else. They all just sat there, staring.

Finally, Edith spoke, "It's been...we've been all right."

Madeleine glanced at her. All right. She supposed that was accurate. They were tight on money, the house was in bad repair, she'd spent months hardly able to move for the pain, Blair screamed at someone every day that winter, but they got through it. They were all right. And they didn't need him.

"How have you been?" Adelle asked, speaking for he first time. Normally, no one would have listened much to what she said, but with no one else talking, her question was welcome. "How was...the war, at the end?"

Lord Luck sighed. "The war was...bloody, to say the least. We lost many men in the final battles. But of course you knew that. Everyone does, what with Prince Thaddeus..."

Adelle bit her lip and her head dropped slightly, bowing toward the table.

The door opened then, and Sara entered with their dinner - a simple meal of chicken and vegetables. She served Lord Luck first and then made her way around the table, ending with Madeleine.

"Let us speak of lighter things than war," her father said as he picked up his fork. He smiled as he glanced across the table. "I saw Rafe Thornton yesterday, briefly. He said he'd been to see you, Blair."

Blair glanced at him. "Unfortunately, yes," she said, slamming her fork into a piece of chicken.

Lord Luck laughed. "Unfortunately? I thought the two of you were on better terms than that." When Blair simply ate her carrots, he went on. "Though I suppose you could do better if you wanted. I suppose...well, it's not for me to say, but..."

"Actually," Blair interrupted, "when I saw Rafe, he said that he'd seen you before that. In the forest. Apart from the rest of the army. What were you doing out there? Shouldn't you have been with everyone else?"

Madeleine glanced from Blair to her father, interested now. Her father apart from the army out there wasn't so different from her father showing up at the Autumn Festival. She wanted to know what he was up to, and she grateful that Blair was rude enough to ask.

"Oh, that," her father said. "That was...just a bit of a meeting between lords that Rafe happened to stumble into. Nothing to be concerned about."

"What kind of a meeting between lords?" Madeleine asked, speaking for the first time. Blair glanced at her, and she glanced back at Blair, an understanding passing between them. This was something they were going to get to the bottom of, even if they hated each other.

He laughed. "It's just politics, ladies. Nothing that would interest you, I'm sure."

"Indeed, you should stop pestering him about it," Edith put in, casting a sharp glance at Blair. "Now you were saying before..."

Madeleine glanced at Blair, who shook her head ever so slightly. They weren't done with that conversation.

Her father laughed again. "Oh, it was nothing. I was simply saying that it's my private speculation that, since the war is over, Prince Ivan will be choosing a wife sooner rather than later. But who knows." He waved his fork in a dismissing nature and took a bite of his chicken.

Blair's eyes, who'd been fixed on her father, slowly turned toward Madeleine, watching her for a moment.

Madeleine rolled her eyes and took a bite of her food. It was ridiculous that Blair was even thinking that. It wasn't as if she was ever going to speak to the prince again.

"Do you really think he'll get married soon?" Adelle asked.

"Well, eventually," Lord Luck said between bites. "Though there's a lot of things for them to be thinking about up at the castle, I'm afraid."

"What sort of things?"

Lord Luck took a bite of his chicken and then picked up his napkin, dabbing his lips. "Well," he said and glanced at Madeleine, "the castle has been abandoned for several years, and it's, well, falling apart, to put it bluntly. When I passed through Saimes, they had the army there trying to recruit workers to staff the castle. In fact, I took the liberty of...signing you up, Madeleine."

She dropped her fork. "What?"

"They paid a fair sum - more than fair, really, for any able bodied person to work for them. I told them you are especially good at cleaning, which is something they're in great need of, it seems. You're to report to the castle tomorrow morning."

She stared at him, unable to believe what she was hearing. "You sold me," she said finally.

"I didn't sell you. I...hired you out."

She stared at him for another long moment, before slowly rising from her seat. "Excuse me, Father, I'm afraid I don't feel very well." She threw her napkin down on the table and headed for the doorway without looking back.

In the hallway, she paused just long enough to lean against the door and breathe for a moment. She could feel her scars flaring, burning in her skin. He sold her. Her own father sold her. She didn't know why she was surprised; he was the man who did nothing while she burned to death in front of him, but - he'd actually sold her, like a slave, like some piece of property he could do what he liked with. It was disgusting.

Inside the room, she heard Adelle say, "But who will do all the cleaning if she's at the castle all the time?"

"The money they paid is enough to hire another servant," her father answered.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped away from the door and marched down the hall to the front door. She went outside and turned around the side of the house, heading for the woods behind them.

She felt better cloaked in leaves and branches and brush, where no one from the house could see her, and she couldn't see them. She stepped slowly and carefully, avoiding twigs on the ground. She didn't want to hear them crack, didn't want to hear anything but the gentle breath of the wind in the trees. The sun was gone from the sky now, but a muted silver rested over everything, lingering into nightfall. It was hushed, calm.

Before she hardly made up her mind on a destination, she'd already found her way there. She was at the small clearing of grass towards the back of her father's property. She used to make fires here in the middle of the night and dance beneath the stars. It was her only time to practice, after working all day. Her mother's grave was here, towards the far edge.

She walked to the grave and stood above the plain, gray stone. She could just make out the writing. Eleanor Luck. That was all it said. Not even a middle name to grace her. It irritated Madeleine. She'd be incomplete without her own middle name. Madeleine Luck didn't sound nearly as good as Madeleine Lisette Luck. Not that it mattered much anymore. No one important knew what her middle name was. No one cared. Perhaps it was for the best that her mother didn't have one.

"I don't know how you married him," she said finally, staring down at the letters on the stone. "You can't have actually loved him. He's terrible. He couldn't have loved you. He doesn't care about anyone."

There was no answer to her complaints. She almost laughed at the silence. Of course there would be no answer. She was a fool, speaking to the grave of someone she never knew, never even heard a story about.

She used to like the fact that she knew nothing about her mother. It meant that she could make up whatever stories she wanted about the woman, and all of them were true. Her mother was anything and everything she wanted. But the only real truth was what was right here: a plain grave and her, standing here talking to nothing.

She turned away from the grave and looked at the rest of the clearing. There were no signs of the fires she'd had anymore. It was probably for the best. She didn't want to see charred grass or pale ashes. It was bad enough when she had to sweep the fireplace every day. She didn't need to be reminded of the pain, or of the way she'd failed.

"Madeleine."

She straightened at the sound of her father's voice, raising her eyes to the opposite edge of the clearing where he stood. He'd followed her out here. "What do you want?" she asked.

He walked farther into the clearing, taking long steps through the grass until he was only a few feet from her. "I want to speak to you about your new job, at the castle."

"You mean the business deal you've made regarding my life?"

He gave a small sigh, one that made it obvious he didn't regret it; he just wanted her to agree with his choice. "It's not just the money," he said. "I did this because I have a job I want you to do for me."

"You already sold me into this job," she said, crossing her arms. "What more could you possibly want?"

He looked at her for a long moment. In the twilight, his eyes seemed darker than ever. "I want someone inside the castle, someone to be my eyes and ears there," he said at last

She blinked. "What are you talking about?" Half of her thought he must have gone mad, but the other half thought it had something to do with why he came back late, why he wasn't with the army, why he had some meeting between lords in the forest. He was up to something - something more than just being a deserter.

He smiled. "Politics. I'm talking about politics."

"What kind of politics?" she asked. If he was having meetings in secret, it didn't bode well. She wasn't going to be caught in some kind of conspiracy. "And does the king know about...whatever it is you're talking about?"

"No," he answered. "He doesn't need to. And neither do you. All I want is for you to get close to Prince Ivan. Find out what he knows."

"What he knows about what?" she asked. From her brief encounter with Prince Ivan, she highly doubted he would know much of anything.

Her father smiled. "Just watch him. See if you notice anything strange. See if he notices anything strange, and if so, how he reacts to it. And if he starts to speak about his brother's death, listen especially carefully."

"Prince Thaddeus died in battle with the Ascharans," Madeleine said, frowning. "Why would I need to listen carefully about that?"

He smirked at her. "Ivan, as you might notice, is not terribly bright. Nor is he much of a leader. But he did something we weren't counting on. That is why we need you to watch him."

"He did something who wasn't counting on?" she asked, feeling more confused by the minute.

"Myself, and several of lords with common interests."

"And what are those interests?" she asked, putting her hands on her hips.

"Wyndl," her father answered, looking her in the eye. "Anything that I do, I do for Wyndl. My job, as a lord, is to protect the interests of my country. That's all I'm doing, Madeleine. This isn't anarchy or treason. This is making our country into the most that it can be."

She pursed her lips together. He looked like he meant it, but...she didn't trust his reasoning. It sounded a lot like anarchy and treason to her. "And what makes you think that I would do anything for you?" she asked finally. "I'll be at the castle, out of your sight. In fact, I wouldn't even have to go to the castle. Tomorrow morning, I could leave Saimes and go anywhere, and you wouldn't be able to stop me."

"You could have done that a long time ago, but you haven't."

She was quiet then. That was true. She'd thought of leaving dozens of times when she got tired of working, tired of the endless jobs Edith gave to her to do. But she never did.

"And where would you go?" her father went on. "Those scars..." her hand moved to her cheek, her neck, "even someone who didn't know what they were from would think you must have been clumsy, must have had some accident, must have done something wrong. Perhaps they'd hire you out of pity, but..."

"I'll work at the castle," she interrupted him, just to make him stop talking. She couldn't stand hearing him anymore. "But that doesn't mean I'm going to report to you on Prince Ivan."

"But you will," he said. "I'm your father."

She said nothing, just stared at him, tried to look defiant. But the truth was, she'd already given in. If she was really strong and not afraid of anything, she'd leave Saimes and forget about him and about Edith and Blair and Adelle. She'd make something of herself in the world, completely apart from her past. But...she couldn't stand the looks of strangers, the pity and the horror.

Maybe it went even deeper than that. It wasn't just the humiliation. Before she fell in the fire, she could have left, and she didn't. She did what she was told, because...it was what she always did.

"So, we have an understanding?" her father asked, looking her in the eye.

She nodded wordlessly.

"Good. I'll leave you then. Edith said to tell you to remember to sweep the fireplace in the morning, before you go."

"Of course," she said, giving half a smirk. That was always her chore. She could never escape the ashes.

Her father stayed where he was for a moment. His eyes moved to the side of the clearing, where the grave was. His expression changed, slightly. The lines around his eyes seemed to loosen, and one side of his mouth tilted up into a small smile. Then he turned and disappeared into the forest.

Madeleine glanced at the grave for a moment, wondering, and then followed into the trees.


	7. Chapter 7

Rafe's horse galloped down the road. He grinned as he rode into the wind, slicing it in half. He was on the way to the castle and having one hell of a good time. He loved riding. He had the suspicion that it was his riding skills more than anything else that got him knighted.

Of course, he hadn't been planning on going to court until things had settled down. But with Lord Luck's visit and the intense boredom of his own estate, he decided to hurry things along a bit. He'd be closer to Blair this way. He could tell Ivan about Lord Luck, maybe. At the very least, he could watch Ivan blunder his way through his royal duties, which ought to be much more entertaining than anything at home.

He wished Blair was with him. She made a good riding partner. When she lived in Shinsworth, it was a closer trip for him – still not close, but closer – and they used to go riding together all the time. Blair rode her horse like a man.

The castle was about five miles away now, and as he rode, he spotted someone on the road in front of him. For a moment, he thought _Blair_, but of course it wasn't her. Hair was too light, sort of reddish. He slowed down so as to not splatter mud all over the girl, and when he reached her side at a slow trot, he suddenly pulled back on the reins. "Madeleine! Where are you off to?" And as she turned to look at him, "What's wrong with your face?"

She certainly wasn't a pretty sight to look at. The skin on half of her face was all pinched looking and rough. He remembered her as Blair's rather pretty stepsister – a bit bad tempered but for fairly obvious reasons. He'd always sort of liked her, even as Blair complained about her for hours at a time.

She seemed neither pleased or dismayed to see him, though more than a little annoyed by his question. "I fell into a fire," she said and kept walking.

"Bad luck!" he said, moving his horse forward to keep up with her and frowning at the scars. He didn't like seeing her looking like she had some sort of flesh eating disease. "Is it ever going to get any better looking?"

She glanced at him. "I don't know," she said finally, forcefully. "This is the best it's gotten so far."

He made a sympathetic grunt before asking, "Well, do you want a ride somewhere?"

"I'm not going home," she said, looking up at him.

He sat up straighter in his saddle in an effort to defend himself. "Well, I'm not going to your home either! I do have a life aside from your stepsister, you know."

"I didn't know," she said.

He smirked at that – he liked word sparring with Madeleine. She reminded him of Blair in a lot of ways, which was probably why he liked her so much. "Well, now you do know. Where are you going then?"

She sighed and looked up at him again. "The castle."

"The castle!" he repeated. He couldn't imagine what business Madeleine would have at the castle. "What for? I'm going there myself, you know."

"In that case," she said, "I _would_ like a ride." She stopped his horse, stepped onto the stirrup, and swung herself up behind him, all in a very fluid movement that left him blinking.

Her swift action was more than little unexpected, but once she was safely on with a grip around his waist to steady her, he simply flicked the reins, and they continued together. "What are you going to the castle for?" he asked after a moment.

"What are _you_ going to the castle for?" she countered.

"Visiting," he replied.

"Visiting who?" her voice came from behind him skeptically.

"Prince Ivan," he said. "We're friends. And also, I'm free to come to court any time I want. I'm a knight now, you know."

"I did hear that," she replied. "You're friends with Prince Ivan? What's he like?"

He considered for a moment, watching the road in front of him. He noticed that she still hadn't answered his question, but he decided not to press the matter for the moment. "He's, uh..." he trailed off. It was difficult to describe Ivan and not sound like he was insulting the man. It wasn't that he was stupid, just –

"Dazed and confused?" Madeleine asked.

He gave a short laugh. That was it exactly. "To put it bluntly, yes." If only Blair could see it as easily as Madeleine. She was silent for a moment, so he thought to ask, "Has your father come back from war yet?"

He felt her arms tense at that question. "Yes," she said. There was a long pause before she went on, "He sold me to the castle."

"What?" He nearly dropped the reins turning back to look at her. His movement was so sudden that the horse stopped and pranced a few steps before standing still. "He can't sell you," he said, ignoring the fact that they were no longer moving. "You're his daughter, not his slave."

Her saw her eyebrows raise at him. "Tell that to my stepfamily, Rafe."

He sighed and turned back to the road, flicking the reins to get them moving again. Selling Madeleine was not so much of a stretch when considering the way she was normally treated. "All right, but what do you mean, he sold you? People don't just sell people in Wyndl."

"They're looking for workers to fix things up at the castle. He signed me up without telling me and is going to use the money he got from it to pay for another servant, apparently."

"So that's why you're going to the castle?" he asked. And that was why she was so loath to talk about it.

"Yes."

He thought for a moment. "I just don't understand it! If he's using the money to get another servant, he's not gaining anything from it. He could have just kept you to get the same amount of work done. No offense, but I don't see your father a particularly philanthropic man. I can't see why he's loaning you at all. Did he tell you why?"

There was a moment of silence before she answered. "No. He didn't say."

He pursed his lips together and thought of his own odd exchange with Lord Luck. He could tell her. If they had the most information between the two of them, perhaps they could figure things out. But then... Lord Luck was her father. Maybe she knew more than she was letting on. Maybe she was on his side – whatever that side was.

He heard her sigh and suddenly felt sorry for her again. Sold by her own father! It wasn't right. "If you'd like, I can talk to your step family," he offered. He doubted he would have much influence on Lord Luck, but maybe if he could get the others on her side...

"It wouldn't do any good," she said. "And maybe it's better this way. At least I'm away from them."

"Aw, Blair isn't so bad," he said. "And I'm sure you could beat her in a fight any day." They were now approaching the castle, and it loomed in front of them with its high towers and peaks. He'd seen it before but never so close. It was big. Really big. The drawbridge was closed, so he called up to the guard tower. "It's Rafe Thornton! Open the bridge."

The soldier gave him a quick salute, and then the bridge lowered, creaking down slowly. He spurred his horse onward and soon heard the thuds of its hooves against the wooden planks. On the other side stood a whole line of army men. General Wescott was closest to the castle doors, and he looked the most cheerful of them. The rest of the men looked quite miserable, a fact which Rafe smirked at. He was ever glad at his decision not to remain in the army.

"Hello, Wescott," he said, reining in his horse. Madeleine slipped down first, and he swung himself off beside her and stepped forward to shake hands with the general.

"Rafe," the man said, smiling as he gave a firm handshake.

"Sir Rafe," he corrected, grinning.

Wescott rose an eyebrow. "I've been knighted too, Rafe. Long before yourself. And made a general, I might add."

Rafe shrugged. "Fair enough," he said, glancing at the other men. He wondered what they were doing. They all looked bored out of their minds. Whatever it was, it didn't appear to be in the tastes of army men.

"Have you come to rejoin the army?" Wescott asked. "And – who is this?" He turned to Madeleine who was still standing next to him.

Rafe glanced at her. "This is Madeleine. She's here for work. The castle's recruiting, or something. Do you know anything about that?"

"Indeed I do. That's what we're doing here, actually." Wescott turned to one of his men who handed him a long list. He flipped through the sheets, looking them up and down. Rafe glanced at the other men. So that was it. Greeting party for new workers. No wonder they weren't enjoying themselves. "Let's see. Madeleine, Madeleine... Ah, Madeleine Lisette. Recommended very highly by Lord Luck." Wescott looked up at her with a smile.

Madeleine nodded. Rafe noticed that Lord Luck had not mentioned her last name, or the fact that she was his daughter. He briefly considered mentioning it himself, but then, what good would it do? He would prefer to stay out of Luck's business as much as possible.

Wescott was now instructing Madeleine on directions to meet her fellow servants and receive orders.

"Thank you," she said when he was finished and then glanced at Rafe for a moment, hesitating.

He gave her half a smile. "Best of luck," he said. "Perhaps I'll see you."

She nodded and then went through the doors.

General Wescott looked back at him. "Well. Why are you here, Rafe? Reconsider your choice to leave the army?"

He laughed. "Not at all. I'm just visiting. Wanted to see Ivan."

"Ah. Perhaps he could use the company. He seems... listless. Though you may have to chip in if you want to stay long. Things are not very settled here yet."

"That's what I was afraid of." He sighed. "Even so, it's better than home."

"Well, go inside then. We'll take care of your horse," said Wescott, taking the reins from him. "See if you can track down a footman. It may take a while."

"Will do," Rafe said. He saluted the general, then walked to the doors, opened them, and went inside. It was darker and quieter than he imagined a castle would be. And less clean, he thought, as he noticed spiderwebs on the ceiling. Nevertheless, he went through the entryway and took the opposite hallway that Madeleine was directed to, hoping to find someone important.

It took time, but after several abandoned hallways, he did find a footman – the king's footman, he thought, though he couldn't remember the man's name.

"Sir Thornton," the man said, giving a slight bow.

Rafe smiled, both at the title and the fact that the man knew his name. Everyone knew his name. "I'm here to see Ivan," he said. "And planning on staying a while. A room would be nice."

The footman nodded. "I believe that can be arranged. His highness is at the courtyard on the wall walk, if you would like to see him first."

Rafe nodded. "That would be excellent."

"Follow me."

They walked through several more hallways and finally the man opened a door to a staircase leading to the wall walkway. Rafe could see the blue sky at the top, and he hurried to follow the footman. When they reached the top, he spotted Ivan standing in the middle of part of the walkway directly in front of them – in between the north and east towers. He was looking down into the courtyard, just as dazed as when Rafe last saw him.

"Your highness," the footman said, stopping several feet away from the prince and bowing. "Sir Rafe Thornton has come to visit you. Would you like to see him now?"

Rafe smirked at the formality. Ivan had already glanced quickly past the footman, his eyes widening as they settled on him. "Rafe," he said. He gave something Rafe supposed was meant to be a smile, though he looked more confused than anything else. He glanced back at the footman. "Yes. Of – of course I'll see him. You may leave us."

The footman walked away and Rafe came and clapped Ivan on the shoulder. "Hello, Ivan," he said. "Good to see you again."

"What – why are you here?" Ivan asked. "It's barely been a day since we got back. Don't you have... things to do at your own estate?"

Rafe shrugged. "Nothing very pressing. My life isn't nearly as interesting or important as yours. I walked around for a bit, and then..." He shrugged. "Thought I'd come visit you. You don't mind, do you?"

"No, I – of course I don't mind. I'm just surprised," Ivan said.

Rafe smiled. He watched Ivan look at him and then look down at his hands as he cracked all of his knuckles. When he was finished, he glanced into the courtyard again and then back at Rafe, pursing his lips together. He was so pitifully awkward. "What have you been doing?" Rafe asked at last, trying to save the man from further embarrassment.

"Um, meetings," Ivan said, rubbing his right temple. "I just got out of one. About... taxes and things."

"Sounds awful," Rafe said. He moved closer to the wall and hoisted himself up to sit on it with his back to the courtyard.

Ivan watched him, looking a bit apprehensive, Rafe thought. "It is," he said after a long moment. "And my parents... they want me to get married."

"Oh?" Rafe said, raising his eyebrows. "To who?"

Ivan shrugged. "Anyone. They just want me to... stabilize the kingdom. Make heirs."

Rafe couldn't help but smirk – in fact, he nearly laughed out loud at the idea of Ivan making heirs. Romancing a woman was not something he saw Ivan being very good at. "Well, I guess there are worse things. Any thoughts on who the lucky lady will be?" He frowned then. The word luck left a rotten taste in his mouth these days. And it reminded him that Blair would like very much to be that lady. He wouldn't let it happen.

Ivan shook his head. "I don't know any women."

"Well, perhaps you should get to know some," Rafe said. "It might be good for you." He stretched his arms as Ivan looked at him. "I myself prefer to remain untethered. It's so much simpler that way, you know? But you're a prince. Do as the minions command."

Ivan turned and leaned against the wall next to him. "What about you?" he said glancing up. "What have you been doing?"

He shrugged. "Aside from traveling? I visited Blair. Talked to my father a bit, walked around the estate." He paused before going on. "Lord Luck came to see me."

"What, at your home?" Ivan asked quickly. "What did he want?"

Rafe shrugged again. "I'm not entirely sure. He only stayed a few minutes."

"Well, what did he say?"

"He, uh... he mentioned you," Rafe said, trying to decide how much he ought to reveal. It didn't seem in good taste to say that Lord Luck accused Ivan of killing his own brother. It was so ridiculous, and then... if it was true – if by any chance such an absurd rumor could be true – he wasn't sure he wanted to know about it.

"What did he say?" Ivan asked again.

"He talked about the throne and... ascension again. Asked if I knew who was next in line after you. I didn't, of course. Do you?"

Ivan shook his head. "That's why I'm getting married," he said.

Rafe nodded. Slowly, he said, "It would have been Thaddeus, I suppose."

"Of course," Ivan replied. He was quick to answer. He didn't take his eyes from Rafe's face.

Rafe swallowed. This was all getting a bit intense, and he didn't actually want to be involved in a conspiracy. Still, he felt he ought to ask... "Ivan," he said, "I know you've been asked before, but... you didn't see who killed Thaddeus, did you?"

"No. I didn't," said Ivan.

He could see that the prince's hands were shaking. He felt a bit bad for bringing all of this up again. He remembered Ivan's nightmares on the way from Aschare. He was sure the man wasn't over it yet. Whatever did happen – even if it really was as simple as Thaddeus being killed by an Ascharan in battle – it was obviously traumatic for him.

"Rafe," Ivan said, "I can... I can trust you, can't I?"

Before Rafe could reply, the tower door opened again, and this time it was the queen. She spotted them and quickly came hurrying over, waving at Ivan. He gave a very small wave back. Rafe jumped off his seat on the wall and back onto the walkway. He bowed as the queen came forward. "Your majesty."

Queen Sidonie smiled at him. "Rafe. Mattias told me you were here. It's so kind of you to visit Ivan."

He forced a smile as he glanced at the prince. "Yes. Well. I thought your son could use some company as he... adjusts to court life."

She smiled again, perhaps brighter than before as she turned to look at Ivan. "He certainly could. Ivan, your father and I have been talking, and we've decided that to spur you along a bit, we'll be sending invitations to all of the ladies of the kingdom to come have a nice tea with you. We'll just have a few at a time, of course, and if you take a special interest in any of them, we can stop inviting them and you can ask that special lady on some other outing."

Rafe glanced at Ivan who seemed paler than before. He had to keep himself from laughing.

"Don't you think it sounds like a good idea?" the queen asked. "It won't be stressful. Just tea – a few times a week, to help you get to know some suitable women."

Ivan looked as though he thought it was anything but a good idea. "It's just that I'm not a very good conversationalist, Mother," he said at last.

"Oh, you'll be fine." The queen waved away his protests. "Look, since Rafe's here, he can join you. Then it'll be less awkward, since you'll have someone you know there with you. You wouldn't mind, would you, Rafe?"

Rafe grinned. This was just the opportunity he was looking for. "Not at all, your majesty. I would be happy to join Prince Ivan. I'll make sure that both he and the ladies have a good time."

"You see, Ivan? You'll be fine," said the queen.

Ivan looked at Rafe and then at her and gave a rather fake looking smile. "Yes, Mother. Thank you."

"Good." She stepped forward and kissed him on the cheek quickly before pulling away. "Now your father told me to remind you there's another meeting in half an hour. About foreign trade."

Ivan nodded. "I remember. I'll be there."

"Good," the queen said again. "And Rafe, your room ought to be ready soon. When Ivan goes to the meeting, just find a servant and you can go refresh yourself."

"Thank you," Rafe said, smiling as the queen walked back to the stairway. Joining Ivan for tea would be a doubly good thing. For one, it was certain to be the most entertaining thing he'd done in quite a while. And secondly, he could keep Blair from forming any kind of connection with the prince when her turn came. This way, he could ignore all of Lord Luck's nonsense and still get what he wanted. It was the perfect opportunity. He glanced at Ivan. "Well, don't worry, I'm here for you, your highness."

Ivan just looked at him.

* * *

After the meeting, Ivan found himself walking slowly back to his room, rubbing at his temples. He was thinking of too many things. What Rafe said about Lord Luck. What Rafe had asked him – why would he ask that? And then getting married, having tea with all these ladies. And to top it all off, trading! The treaty was unclear about the issue, and now Aschare wanted to trade with them, and the Wyndlans near the border couldn't imagine trading with the same people who had crushed their towns, and it was all... such a mess.

He opened the door to his room, walked inside, and shut it before he realized there was a girl inside it. His hand lingered on the door handle, and he thought about going back out, but she had already dropped into a curtsy. "Your highness," she said.

He glanced at the door and then back at her. "Um. Yes," he said.

"I was cleaning your room and didn't realize you would be returning. Would you like me to leave?" she asked. She was still in her curtsy with her hair fallen over her face.

"Um. No. You can... go on cleaning. Do you... want me to leave?" he asked at last, feeling like that might be the better solution.

She moved a little then, and he saw one gray eye amid her auburn hair. "Well – you can do what you like," she said. "It's your room. I mean, it's your whole castle. I think you can be where you want." She straightened entirely and he could see scars on her face – the girl from the procession!

"Y – you," he said, and then stopped himself from stuttering any further. "I'm sorry I almost trampled on you the other day."

The corners of her mouth pulled upward. "I'm not," she said in a more confident, sweeping tone. He noticed that she suddenly stood up straighter, raising her chin upward. "It added interest to my otherwise mundane existence."

"Oh," he said after a moment.

"And anyway, you gave me such good advice. You know, about staying out of roads when people come through? Brilliant." He had a feeling she was mocking him, but he wasn't sure how to respond. After a few minutes of standing there, she smiled again. "Well, I'll just get back to cleaning," she said. "You can sit down or something. This is your room, you know."

"Yes," he said as she went back to work. She had a cloth and was dusting off his dresser in a very thorough manner. He pursed his lips and then went and sat on his bed. He was acutely aware of her presence. The sound of her cloth on the wood. The sound of her breathing. Her feet on the floor whenever she took a step. How was a person supposed to think with someone else around?

After a moment, he stood up and went to the window. He looked out on the courtyard for a few minutes, then went back and sat on his bed again.

"You seem restless," she said, breaking the silence.

He glanced at her. She had moved on to Thaddeus's dresser now. It didn't really need to be dusted. No one was using it. "I – I just – when did you start working here?"

"Today," she said.

"Are you going to be cleaning my room a lot?"

She glanced at him with a smile. "It depends how much of a mess you make." After a few more moments she went on. "Tomorrow we're supposed to be moving some of your things – since you don't need two of everything anymore. And you could use a bigger bed and dresser. When all of that's settled, I believe I'm supposed to be the maid for all of the royal bedrooms."

"So I'll be seeing you often, then?"

"Do you want to see me often?" she asked, glancing at him with the corners of her mouth turned upward again.

He blinked a few times. Took a breath, in and out. Did all women speak like this – teasing, mocking, jumping to conclusions? If so, he wasn't sure how he would handle tea with them all. "What's your name?" he asked at last.

"Madeleine."

"Madeleine," he repeated. "Madeleine what?"

"Madeleine Lisette Luck."

He sat up straighter. "Luck? That must be – then that's just – your lord's name, who sent you here." He watched her face intently, waiting for some kind of reply. She couldn't be... related to the man. He wouldn't send his – daughter to work as a servant. Unless, maybe, if she was an illegitimate child – but the idea of Lord Luck sending anyone to work at the castle was terrifying! What if she was going to kill him in his sleep?

"I don't wish to discuss my personal life," she said finally. Her voice was devoid of any emotion. Her eyes were fixed on the dresser, mouth pinched in a frown. She looked angry, he thought – and maybe a little sad.

He turned away from her and looked down at his hands. "I'm sorry," he said. He supposed he shouldn't pry. He certainly didn't want people prying into his life or asking him too many questions, so why should he pry into other people's lives? It was just the Luck connection. It unnerved him.

"It's all right," she said after a moment. Then, "Are you enjoying life in Saimes so far, your highness?"

He sighed. "I don't know." When she didn't reply, he glanced back at her. She was doing her job, of course. Cleaning. "It's – it's a lot harder than I thought it would be. And it's barely begun."

She glanced at him and then moved to the nightstand next to Thaddeus's bed. "It must be strange not being at war."

He nodded. He thought – maybe he could tell her. Not everything, but some of it. She probably wasn't actually sent to strangle him in his sleep. She was probably just there to clean. "During the war... I always wanted it to be over. But now that it is, I have to learn all these things that I don't know anything about. And make decisions for thousands of people when I have no idea what's best."

She said nothing, and his thoughts drifted back to the meeting. "If you were asked to trade with people," he began suddenly, "who had trampled over your home and killed your family, but you were now trying to live in peace with them, what would you say?"

She blinked at him a few times. "Who's asking me?" she replied at last.

"The people who fought for you for years to make it better."

She sniffed. "You mean the people who abandoned me for sixteen years? It'll take more than asking to make the Wyndlans agree to trade with Aschare. You'll have to get them to trust you before they trust their sworn enemies." She made one last swipe on the nightstand, then turned to him. "I think I'm done here," she said, starting for the door.

He watched her go, thinking of what she'd said. Getting the Wyndlans to trust him. Was that what Lord Luck was all about, that he didn't trust the royalty anymore? Or were those just her own thoughts? Was that what everyone thought? It was only after she was gone that he thought to say goodbye.


	8. Chapter 8

Look! I'm alive! And in even better news, I have 50,000 words of this story written. It needs some editing, but expect updates. I will not abandon my characters to despair! (And there would be a lot of despairing if I abandoned them. **A lot** of despairing. Angsty kids.)

* * *

Madeleine opened the top drawer of Prince Ivan's dresser and held open the sack she'd been given to clear out his and Prince Thaddeus's childhood belongings. The soldiers would be moving out both dressers and replacing them with one larger one as soon as she was finished. She'd been told to put everything in the sack and get rid of it – none of it was needed anymore.

She thought such an order seemed a little inconsiderate to the prince, but then, why complicate an easy job? Putting things in a sack was most likely the simplest job she was ever going to have at the castle, so she might as well enjoy it. And anyway, she hadn't held onto her own trinkets from childhood. She wasn't sure what had happened to them, and Prince Ivan had been away sixteen years. He probably didn't even remember what was in the drawer.

With a short sigh, she first took out the paper that was lying on top of everything else. She was about to drop it into the sack when she noticed the writing on it. Curious, she held it out to read:

_Ivan,_

_Muther says I must work on my riting skills. She says you will pass me up on our learning. This will just not do, she says. So I'm riting to you to let you know that my riting skills are just as good as yours ever will bee. Oh who am I joshing? You always rite better then me. But I can kill you in War any day. So keep your riting. I'll make up for my lack of skills._

_Muther just came in and said no. I've got to learn to rite to. Will you help me learn as good as you? I'll help you fight in War better. Then I'll rite nice letters sometime and you'll be able to kill me sometime. Deal?_

_Thaddeus_

She felt the smile on her face when she finished, tugging at the corners of her mouth. She never thought of royalty as children. Somehow it didn't surprise her to learn that Ivan was a scholar at a young age. It hade sense that he'd be quieter, more focused on studying than fighting.

But he was the one that survived the war. She stopped smiling then. Prince Thaddeus was dead. Prince Ivan would never have another conversation with him. She hesitated over the letter, looking at the crooked letters, the hasty curve of the last s.

She bit her lip, then put it in the sack. She had orders.

Next she took out an acorn and tossed it in with the paper. Then a red stone, followed by a blue one, then half of one with crystal in the center. Light spilled through the window when she held it up, and sparkles played on the jagged edges.

She put it in the sack slowly and looked at the rest of the items in the drawer. A spinning top. A paper star. Across the middle were the words, _Ivan I maid this for you. Hapy Burthday to us._

She pursed her lips together as she put the star in the sack, along with the spinning top, a twig, two feathers, and a dried leaf pressed between two sheets of paper.

Finished, she shut the dresser drawer and moved on to Prince Thaddeus's dresser. The contents were similar, but Thaddeus's drawer was much more hap hazardously arranged. Where Prince Ivan's items had been neatly spread across the bottom of his drawer, Prince Thaddeus's were stacked and strewn randomly – and he had much more than Ivan.

She counted seven feathers as she put them in the sack, then eleven stones in varying colors – some blue and red like Ivan's, others brown and gray, some flat and some round – all types of stones. She wondered what he'd done with so many. Hiding beneath several crumpled, ink blotted sheets of paper was half of a rock with crystal in the center. She held it in the palm of her hand for a moment, then put her sack on top of the dresser and fished around until she found the one from Ivan's desk.

She held one half in each hand and moved them slowly closer to each other. They fit together perfectly, every line matching until the crack was barely visible. The same stone.

After a moment, she put both halves back in the sack and forced herself to keep clearing out the drawer. But her mind was racing.

She'd been given this glimpse into the prince's childhood, and he suddenly seemed real to her. He walked around like a dazed half wit, but who could blame him? He was missing his twin brother. Half his life.

What she remembered of her own childhood was mostly being alone. Of course, she ran out and played with Simon sometimes – with stones and feathers much like these. But the rest of the time… she looked out windows a lot. And lit candles and searched all the rooms in the house for some kind of secret passageway to another world.

It was lonely, until she found fire dancing. That made up for siblings she never had. Blair and Adelle didn't count. They hadn't moved into her house until two years ago, and then it was practically an invasion. They took over her house, kicked her to the lowest position in it.

Still, seeing the relationship between the two of them, she was sure if one of them died, the other would want to hold onto childhood reminders of being together. She didn't like them, but they showed her – at least a little – what siblinghood looked like.

At the bottom of Prince Thaddeus's drawer was a letter much like the one in Prince Ivan's – but this one with much neater handwriting.

_Dear Thaddeus,_

_Thank you for the paper star. You are my favorite brother in the whole wide world. We will always be brothers. I am glad. Happy birthday to us._

_Your hopefully also favorite brother,_

_Ivan_

When her eyes fell off the last black letter, she dropped it into the sack and closed the drawer, then turned to face the rest of the room. The beds were already a gone. A new one would be here soon. Then the new dresser. There wouldn't be doubles of anything. This would be a grown man's room with no hint of the twin boys who lived here together.

She couldn't erase all of it. She wouldn't erase all of it.

Gripping the sack tight in her fingers, she walked to the door and pulled it open. If she left the sack in the prince's room, it would likely be removed along with the wardrobes. But she couldn't very easily keep it in the servants' quarters without raising a few eyebrows if anyone looked at the contents. Tracking the prince down seemed a bit impossible, but he ought to have his things.

Rounding a turn in the hallway, she collided with someone who apparently was paying even less attention to where they were walking than she was. Stumbling backward, she looked up and saw that it was Prince Ivan. Impeccable timing, really. She almost smiled at him, but that seemed out of place. Instead, she dropped to a curtsy as was proper.

"Your highness," she said.

He blinked a few times, then said, "Madeleine. We seem to run into each other often. Forgive me." He made to move past her, but she quickly swerved to the same side of the hallway as him, blocking his path. He looked down at her with a small frown.

"I'm sorry," she said quickly. "It's just… Here," she said finally, holding out the sack for him to take. "I had to clean out your and Prince Thaddeus's drawers. I thought you might want to keep some of the things."

He looked at her while she continued to hold her arms outstretched. He didn't take the sack. "Why?" he asked at last.

Now it was her turn to blink. Her arms went slack. Was she wrong to think he'd want to remember his brother? She tried to do something nice for him, and he just stood there. Was it some trait of royalty, to just not care about anything? His brother was gone; why dwell on it? Maybe his continual daze wasn't grief. Maybe he was just preoccupied with himself. _He'd _gone through the war. _He_ was scarred by it. Couldn't deal with the stress.

The whole thing made her angry suddenly. He thought war was so scarring – he ought to try having his face burnt off. Try having his father stand there and watch him burn, not bothering to do anything about it. See what betrayal felt like.

"I just thought you might want some of it," she said finally. "To remember your brother by. If you don't want it, get rid of it." She pushed the sack at him again and then let go – when he didn't grab it, it dropped to the floor. Rocks spilled throughout the hallway and feathers floated slowly to the ground.

She hesitated a moment, biting her lip as their eyes locked. He looked confused, as always. She felt a flush spread through her scars. She was a maid here. That was her job. To clean and clear out. Not to go through the prince's childhood, certainly not to knock everything onto the floor. Even so… he ought to _care_, about something.

Finally, she shrugged one shoulder. "They're your things. Pick them up." With that, she swept past him. Her arms shook. She could feel her heartbeat in her stomach. She'd just upbraided the prince of her country. He had every right to throw her out now. Then where would she go? Not back home. Not to Edith and Blair and Adelle. Not to her father, certainly. If the prince threw her out, she'd have nothing.

Before she turned the next corner, she glanced backward. Prince Ivan was kneeling on the floor, bowed over the paper star. She swallowed. Maybe he did care about his brother after all. He just… didn't know how to act like a normal person.

She hoped that was all it was. She hoped he didn't throw her out, most of all. She turned to go, then looked back at him one more time. Her father said to pay attention to how he responded to things dealing with Prince Thaddeus. She wasn't necessarily intending to actually spy on the prince for her father, but she had to admit he responded oddly.

But then, he responded to everything oddly. Why should this be any different?

Before he look back and see her still standing there, she turned the corner. She had more work to do, of course. The queen's clothes needed airing out and cataloguing, to see what she could still use and what new things she needed. After that, there was polishing, dusting, sorting.

"Madeleine!"

She looked up to see General Wescott walking toward her. He was smiling, as always. She hadn't seem him much since the first day she came, but whenever she did see him, he always seemed to be smiling about something. "Yes, General?" she asked as he came closer.

"I have a message for you. Lord Luck stopped by earlier, and he asked that you return to his estate sometime soon. We agreed on the day after tomorrow. You'll have the whole day off."

She balled her fingers into fists. This was her father's way of forcing her to report to him. Request time to see her from General Wescott himself. She wondered that someone didn't see through his schemes. General Wescott was supposed to be smart, wasn't he? She looked at him desperately for a moment, but he only looked happy for her – as if he was doing her some sort of a favor.

She pursed her lips together. She couldn't really refuse time off. "Um, thank you, General," she managed to say finally, beginning to walk past.

"Think nothing of it! Enjoy your time off. Remember to work hard today and tomorrow."

"I will," she called back to him, moving on down the hallway. There was still work to do. She'd deal with her father later.

* * *

Ivan walked through the hallways of the castle with no particular destination in mind. He just needed to think, and walking seemed to help a little. He wanted to figure out where everything had gone wrong.

Thaddeus hadn't always hated him. After looking at everything Madeleine took out of their drawers, he was sure of that. He remembered better now – running around in the forest, down to the river, collecting stones and feathers and insects together. Every waking moment of his childhood was with Thaddeus, making up games and exploring the world. Thaddeus hadn't always hated him.

He wanted to believe that Thaddeus never actually hated him, but obviously something had changed along the way. They were best friends growing up, but somehow they ended up trying to kill each other. He couldn't wrap his head around it.

At some point, Thaddeus decided _he_ was fit to be king, and Ivan wasn't. But when? And why? Had he done something to lose Thaddeus's faith in him? Or did Thaddeus just want to be king that badly? He could have just said something. Maybe he would have even abdicated if he knew Thaddeus wanted it that much. Perhaps he should have said as much in the battlefield, when Thaddeus attacked. Instead he just killed his twin brother. Like a reflex, once he started fighting back. Talking became the farthest thing from his mind.

His mother's voice around the corner was a welcome distraction from that line of thought. "It's not that she's not good at her job. She quite good, and… it's not the fact that she has the scars, it's just… it makes me so sad to look at her. And there's so much to be sad about these days. When I see her, it's just… one more thing on top of everything else. Don't you think we could just give her a different position? She can certainly keep a job here, just… one not so in the forefront."

As Ivan rounded the corner, he saw his mother outside her door talking to Ruth, the head of the women servants. He remembered her from before the war. She used to sneak candy to him and Thaddeus after dinner sometimes.

He supposed they were talking about Madeleine. She was the only servant with scars he'd noticed. They didn't bother him, though, and he found it a little odd that they bothered his mother. He'd always thought of his mother as the kindest person he knew. They were just scars. To be honest, he'd barely looked at them.

"I suppose we can move her down," Ruth said in reply, sounding a little reluctant. "Though she's quite a good maid, and what I like most about her is that she never complains about anything. Sometimes I think she looks like maybe she wants to, but no matter how long I wait for it, she never says anything negative."

"Oh, I don't have any complaints about her work or her attitude," his mother said quickly. "It's just her face. It makes me so sad."

Ivan had stopped walking, and now he noticed someone else at the opposite end of the hallway, hesitating at the corner. He saw a swinging gray skirt and auburn hair, and he knew it had to be her. Madeleine stood listening to his mother talk about how she couldn't stand looking at Madeleine's face.

He pursed his lips together, feeling like something should be done. He walked forward to approach the women. "Mother," he said when he was close enough, and both she and Ruth turned to look at him. "Are you talking about Madeleine?"

The queen's eyebrows rose. She seemed surprised at his entrance into the conversation, perhaps surprised that he knew what they were talking about. "The new maid, yes, the one with the scars. Is Madeleine her name?"

He nodded and glanced past his mother to the end of the hall. Madeleine was fully exposed now, and from here he could make out a bit of her expression, one eyebrow raised and her armed crossed, perhaps skeptical of what he was about to say. He turned his attention back to his mother. "I don't think you should switch her position just because of the scars."

She waved one hand at him. "It's not about the scars. It's not that I think she'd hideous. It's just that – I feel she must be so unhappy about it. And it makes me unhappy, seeing so much tragedy spelled out across her face like that."

He blinked a few times, wondering what to say. He looked at his mother's face – her pale, unblemished skin and her eyelashes blinking slowly at him as she waited for an answer. She was pretty even in her middle age. She must have always been pretty. Maybe that was why she couldn't understand that she was wrong. She had to be wrong, because everyone had some kind of unhappiness, some kind of problem. Madeleine didn't have a choice in the fact that hers was so visible. And maybe it was better that way. Better than trying to hide it. "She's still a person, Mother. If I had gotten scarred in battle, would you not want to see me anymore?"

"Of course I'd want to see you!" the queen protested. "You're my son."

He shrugged. "She's someone's daughter." He bit his lip and decided to try a different tactic. "Mother… you're sad that – Thaddeus is gone." His voice almost broke at his brother's name, and he suddenly clenched his fist to avoid giving anything away. "Everyone can see that from looking at your face. But we still want to be with you. You're still my mother. You're still the queen."

The queen looked very wide eyed and sad for a moment and then nodded. "I see your point." She looked at Ruth and touched the woman's arm. "Never mind what I said, Ruth. Keep Madeleine where she is. She is a good maid, and I'm sure she's a nice girl. I was being insensitive."

"As you wish, your majesty," Ruth said, bowing and turning to go – in the opposite direction from where Madeleine was standing, now hiding behind the corner once again.

His mother looked up at him. "I'm glad you're so sensible, Ivan. Here I am getting so caught up in petty issues. And so… selfish. I'm glad you could see things I didn't." She smiled and patted his arm. "I'll see you for dinner later." She turned back into her room, shutting the door behind her.

He stood there for a moment, thinking. He didn't really think that he could see anything she couldn't. It was just that he'd talked to Madeleine – a little, and she'd given him back all those things from when he and Thaddeus were children. He didn't think she should be turned away just for having scars. She couldn't help that.

He glanced to the end of the hallway and saw that she had come out of the corner again and was making her way toward him. He walked forward to meet her halfway. When they reached each other, he waited for her to speak.

She didn't, at first. She just stood looking at him, then ducked into a curtsy. "Your highness," she said.

He waved a hand at her. "You don't have to…" He trailed off with another gesture, attempting to signify the curtsy, the 'your highness,' all the formalities that seemed so unnecessary for this moment.

"Another maid said they put me in charge of the royal bedrooms it wouldn't cause any trouble. No one would… trouble with me, because I'm too ugly."

It took him a moment to understand what she meant, and then he looked away from her quickly, suddenly staring intently at the stone tiles of the floor. He didn't know what to say to that. What did she want him to say? "Troubling" her was the farthest thing from his mind in any case. He had a multitude of other things to concern himself with, and – he looked at her face and suddenly stopped thinking of the reasons why that wasn't an issue. Her lip was trembling.

He looked at the scars, then – actually looked at them. They weren't pretty. He'd never seen burn wounds much before, and they were worse than any of the scars he'd seen from sword or arrow wounds. The skin was still a bit red and… strangely dried and wrinkled. It looked puckered and uncomfortable. He looked back into her eyes – steely gray and staring into his with her head up high. A flush had spread up her cheeks. It made the scars look worse, but he stopped looking at them. They weren't what mattered. "I don't think you're that ugly."

She snorted, but he thought she at least relaxed a little. "Oh, not _that_ ugly. Well. That's comforting. I hope that's not what you say to your ladies when they come for tea."

He blinked. "You know about that?"

She raised one eyebrow and laughed again. "You're the prince. Of course I know about it. Everyone knows about it. It's not like it's a secret."

He swallowed. He wasn't used to living like this. Being the crown prince. Of course he'd been the crown prince during the war, too, but… it didn't seem like it then. He felt like just another soldier. Now he was on display for everyone. He glanced at Madeleine, and she looked ready to sidle past him. "Well – do you have any… tips?" he asked, stopping her from going. "I just – I'm not very good at conversation. Especially with ladies."

"I hadn't noticed," she said.

He frowned and started to ask, "Really?" when he noticed the corners of her mouth pulling upward. She was laughing at him. Of course. "I just haven't been around them," he said.

"I haven't been around crown princes," she said, shrugging. "Sometimes you just learn to deal with things."

"Could you at least try to help me?" he asked desperately. She was the only woman besides his mother that he'd really even had a conversation with – and even though none of those conversations had gone particularly well, she could at least tell him what he was doing wrong.

She just looked at him for a long moment and then laughed again. "No." She started to walk past him, and he turned to watch her, searching for anything to make her change her mind.

"Why?" was the only thing he could come up with in the end.

She turned to look back at him. "Because I don't want to," she said, seeming amused by the question. She shook her head at him once and then kept walking. Down the hallway, around the corner.

He let out his breath and then took in a deeper one. He realized then that he'd meant to thank her for saving his things for him, but their conversation never went in that direction. If he brought it up, she probably would have scoffed at his gratitude somehow anyway. Still, he was glad she'd given him his things back, and somehow he was glad his mother wasn't switching her position either. It was odd between them, but… he didn't mind it.

* * *

REVIEW! Tell me what you think about Madeleine? And Ivan? And my long awaited (or maybe not very awaited) return to this story?


	9. Chapter 9

Look! I'm updating and it hasn't even been a month yet! I would like to thank all you lovely people who are still reading even though I am such a fickle updater. I love you, and you make writing so much more fun. Please review!

* * *

Madeleine walked down the dirt road toward her house. She didn't mind the walk. She liked the feeling of early morning air – the mist hiding the fullness of things. Everything was a skeleton of itself. Trees were just curved outlines of trunks, tops obscured by the cloud settled over the road. The sun had just begun to reach through, permeating a warmth through the air. She picked up her skirt to keep it off the mud of the road, not minding much if just her shoes splashed through it.

When she saw the house, she almost stopped walking, fingers clenching into fists. It looked just like she remembered. Rising out of the dirt in straight lines – sturdy, if not particularly beautiful. The field behind the house was bare. The fence between the house and the road was falling apart. The stakes were rotting, many of the rails only attached at one end now. She didn't want to go back.

But she had no choice. If she didn't go now, her father would just come inquiring again. Maybe request to speak to her at the castle, and he'd probably be angrier then. It was better just to have it over with. It wasn't like she actually had anything to tell him.

With a sigh, she turned into the drive, put her hands on the familiar wooden gate and pushed it open. She walked slowly to the doorway and wondered if she ought to knock. That would be a little ridiculous, wouldn't it? It was her house.

Before she could reach for the doorknob, it opened, and her father stood in the doorframe. "Madeleine," he said, "you're earlier than I expected."

She looked up at his dark eyes and hair, the smooth perfection of his clothing. He didn't look tired, though it was early morning. She doubted any of the rest of them were awake, except Lane and Sara. It was interesting to learn her father was a morning person. She had no idea.

"I thought I'd come early," she said. "Get this over, so I can do something with my day." She intended to find Simon and spend the day with him, watching his geese, or maybe go into town and spend an hour or two with Myron.

"Well, come in," her father said, stepping out of her way.

She followed him inside and was surprised when he led her up the staircase and then to the second room on the right – his private study. She could only remember being there a few times in her entire life. That didn't make it a privilege, though. Each time, she'd been called in for a business-like conversation in which he barely looked at her. Now, as then, she found her eyes moving around the room, trying to take in everything. The walls were lined with bookshelves, but none of the top shelves had books. Instead there were large crystals in different colors – purple and blue that sparkled as light streamed through the windows. And the shelves were covered with a gauzy cloth of red and orange. Everything was so colorful, something she never associated with her father.

He sat on the large leather chair in front of the coffee table and beckoned to her to sit on the other chair next to him. Both were slightly facing the fireplace and slightly facing each other, though she didn't remember him ever allowing anyone to spend time with him there.

When she sat down, he said nothing, and for a moment she allowed her eyes to stray again. On the mantel above the fireplace was a vase of dried roses. They were all colors – red, orange, blue, yellow, white. All the colors she'd ever seen roses dyed for the fire dancers. She pursed her lips together, ignoring the suddenly squirming feeling in her stomach. It was over. It was long over.

"Well," her father began at last, seeming to tear his eyes away from something –the mantel as well, perhaps, "Madeleine. How are you?"

She blinked a few times. That was not the question she expected him to ask. "I'm fine," she said.

He kept looking at her, his dark eyes boring into her like he expected her to say more. Finally he nodded, chin bobbing up and down. "Good, good." He looked away from her – at the roses, she thought – and then at the coffee table. It was draped in the same fabric that was on the bookshelves, only this one was pure white.

Finally he stood up, crossing his arms. "What have you noticed in the castle?" he asked, turning to face her. "You've been there over a week now."

She looked up at him and shrugged. "Nothing, really." He kept staring until she felt she had to go on. "I've learned the general layout of the place and how to effectively clean it. That's all."

He blinked a few times. "You do realize the people I've paid off to get you a job with the royal bedrooms. They don't give those positions to girls with scars."

For a moment, her blood froze. He'd just insulted her as much as he could possibly manage, and he was trying to use it as a guilt trip? She clenched her fingers together in her lap and felt her face flare. Then she remembered Prince Ivan standing up for her to the queen. The queen could have sent her away easily, spoiling all her father's plans. It was Prince Ivan that was keeping her there, not her father. He had less power than he thought.

She drew a breath. "I suppose you won't be getting a new servant like you told Adelle then," she said, raising her chin high. She wanted to throw it in his face that he had no money. That's why he married Edith. At least, that was what she assumed. She didn't know why else he'd marry a woman he never showed any affection for.

He said nothing but walked the short distance to the window, looking out. While he wasn't looking at her, she turned again to the items around the room. First the dried roses, then back at the gauzy orange and red cloth on the bookshelves. When the light played through the different layers of color, it – it almost looked like flames. Fighting the fear that stole her breath, she forced herself to ask why. Why would her father have these clothes and those roses? What were they from? She knew so little about him.

"You must have at least talked to the prince briefly," her father said then, turning to face her once again. "What was your impression of him?"

She sighed. "He seems sad. And dazed. As one would expect after losing his brother."

He looked at her with more interest now, like there was actually some sort of a purpose to this interrogation. "Did he say something about his brother?" he asked quickly.

She thought of the dresser drawers. The matching halves of the crystal. The birthday cards. But Prince Ivan hadn't actually said anything about Prince Thaddeus to her. "No," she said.

Her father sighed, half turning to the window again, head bowed forward.

She rose an eyebrow at his dismayed demeanor. "I don't understand what your fascination with him is. I have no idea what you want me to look for."

He gave another, shorter sigh and sat back down next to her. "Do you think he'll make a good king? Is he a leader? Is he easily swayed by others? Does he seem suspicious of those around him?" He listed the questions with an annoyed tone – like they ought to have been obvious to her, or maybe he was just tired of talking about it.

"It seems like he ought to be suspicious with you spying on him," she said. Then after a moment, "I wish you would tell me what it was all about. Then at least I could know whether I actually wanted to be a part of it or not." And maybe she'd tell the prince about it. She felt he ought to know.

Lord Luck looked at her with his cursory blank expression – if a bit more frustrated than usual – and then switched it to a small smile. "I simply want to know what the prince is like. To see if he's fit to be our ruler. In the future, why don't you write down a summary of the conversations you have with him or that you hear him have with others, and I'll read them over. It'll be easier than asking all these questions." He stood up again and reached a hand to pull her to her feet, which she took hesitantly. "Now then," he said, "I suppose you can leave. I'll see you to the door."

For a moment, she stood without moving, just looking back at him. She didn't understand. To see if Prince Ivan was fit to be a ruler? What did that even mean? And what if he wasn't? It was still his birthright. Maybe he'd grow into it. What business of it was her father's? And this room. The roses – the cloth like fire. What did any of it mean?

She thought of asking him a question. Anything to find out something about him. She was realizing more and more that she knew nothing about this man she called her father. He'd never spoken to her about anything in his life. But like the hundreds of other times she'd been in his presence, she decided against asking. If he'd ever wanted to tell her something about himself – or learn something about her, for that matter – he would have told her, asked her. He'd have made some effort. It was too late. She started for the door.

He followed her down the staircase. She listened to the rhythm of his feet behind her, and then they were at the doorway. She put her hand on the doorknob and glanced back at him. They were both silent, looking at each other.

"Well," he said, "I'll… see you next week then. They said you could have the same day off each week."

She nodded. Didn't bother protesting. He'd already arranged it all. And maybe if she had enough awkward conversations in his study, she'd someday learn why he had dried roses on his mantelpiece and fire colored cloth on his bookshelves. It was doubtful, but there was still some chance.

Without saying goodbye, she opened the door and walked out, shutting it just as Rafe Thornton rode up. She watched him swing off his horse and open the gate. They met in the middle of the walk to the house. He looked surprised to see her – and oddly flustered. "Madeleine," he said, running a hand through his hair. "What are you doing here?"

"I had a day off," she said, frowning at him. This was her house, after all, not his. "What are you doing here? Blair won't be up yet." Blair hated mornings. Even if she was awake, it wasn't an ideal time for visiting her. She'd be angry to see anyone. She was sure Rafe knew that. She could remember him making the mistake of showing up too early in the past and leaving without exchanging a civil word with Blair.

"I know," he said. "I just…" He trailed off and seemed to consider something. "Your… father asked me to come see him when he was at the castle the other day."

She looked at him, frowning a little. Her father wanted to see Rafe? Why? Considering her father's recent interests, it seemed suspicious.

"If you had a day off, why are you leaving so early?" Rafe asked then. Now he was the one frowning at her. "And if you're going to just come and go, why come at all? I know you don't like your family. And most of them aren't awake."

She felt her face grow warm as she looked down at the ground. Perhaps her position wasn't any less suspicious than Rafe's. "My.. father wanted to see me," she said, raising her eyes to his.

He kept looking at her for a moment, then nodded once. "Well," he said, "There it is then."

She nodded back at him. She had the feeling that neither of them quite wanted to be here, but here they both were. Maybe neither of them quite knew why. But there was a camaraderie in that. "Well," she said, "I'll see you back at the castle, Rafe." She gave a small smile as she passed him, and he smiled back.

"See you, Madeleine," he called back at her.

She walked out the gate and a short distance down the road, then started running. The sun was fully shining now, and she had the entire day off. She started toward Simon's field, welcoming a day to forget her father, forget the castle, forget her scars. A day to be free.

* * *

Rafe took his horse to the stables after Madeleine was gone, feeling a bit odd about the whole situation. He was here to see her father. She was here to see her father. Her father was most likely some sort of evil mastermind.

He wouldn't have had to come, but… the man was Blair's stepfather. He felt he should find out what he was up to. And he was curious. Madeleine was most likely in this situation – whatever the situation was – against her will. He couldn't imagine her willingly joining Lord Luck's plans. So neither of them were really guilty. It was just a strange circumstance they were caught in.

After leaving his horse in a stall next to Lord Luck's, he hurried back to the front of the house, up the steps, and knocked on the door. Lord Luck opened it promptly and gave a thin smile. "Come in, Rafe," he said, stepping aside. "I'm glad you've come."

Rafe gave a short laugh. "I'm not. But I was curious. What do you want?"

Lord Luck shut the door behind him. "Why don't you come into the parlor? We'll talk." He led the way to the room, and Lord Luck sat in a chair and he sat on the settee. They both looked at each other for a moment, not speaking.

"Have you seen Blair recently?" Lord Luck asked at last.

Rafe shook his head. "No. Not since I returned from the war."

Lord Luck made a brief murmuring sound as he rested his chin on his two index fingers, folding the ones together. "She hasn't spoken of you, either. And when you do come up in conversation, she seems quite loathe to hear about you."

He shifted in his seat. He didn't want to hear about that.

"However, she does seem most interested in discussing Prince Ivan," Lord Luck went on, glancing at him as if trying to discern a reaction. "Anything about him, she's quite eager to hear."

Rafe looked at the lord. He didn't know what he was expected to say to that. He didn't feel particularly interested in discussing the matter at all.

"She wants to be with him," Lord Luck said. "You do realize that. Should a choice ever arise, she would pick him."

"I can change her mind," he said, loudly, forcing himself to believe it. He'd get Blair back, somehow.

"I'm not sure," Lord Luck said. "You left her, Rafe. A whole year and not so much as a word from you. She desires someone more… steadfast, I think."

He looked at the man, deciding this was over. He didn't come to receive taunts about his relationship with Blair. "If you called me here simply to discuss my relationship with your stepdaughter, I don't appreciate it. I can manage on my own."

Lord Luck waved his hand. "We'll move on then. What do you think of Prince Ivan?"

He rubbed his forehead for a moment and then shrugged. He was tired of these questions. Tired of Lord Luck beating around the bush. What was his point? "What happened to Prince Thaddeus?" he asked at last. "And why are you so obsessed with these questions about Ivan? Answer me straight or I'm leaving now." He put a hand on the armrest, ready to push himself up in a moment if Lord Luck didn't say anything useful.

Lord Luck was silent for a moment. "Ivan killed Prince Thaddeus," he said at last.

"How do you know that?" Rafe asked. "You weren't there. No one saw."

Lord Luck laughed. "Do you really think it would be possible for no one to see? Just because I wasn't there doesn't mean no one was. This plan doesn't revolve around me."

Rafe looked at him and shook his head. He wasn't surprised by this information. Lord Luck had more or less told him before. Ivan almost confessed to it that day on the wall walk. But there had to be more to the story. "Regardless, Ivan didn't kill Thaddeus of his own volition. There's no reason, since he's already the crown prince, and… he's not a murderer."

Lord Luck sat back in his chair, and Rafe saw that he was going to have to figure it out himself.

"Thaddeus tried to kill him first? To take the throne?" he asked. When Lord Luck smiled, he went on, "But let me guess – that wasn't his idea either? I've seen them together, and they didn't hate each other. What did you do?"

Lord Luck shrugged. "We may have had an influence on Thaddeus. But it was his decision. He was reluctant, of course. That's why he waited to the last battle. He hoped the Ascharans would do his job for him."

"But what did you tell him to make him want to kill his twin brother?" Rafe asked. He couldn't understand. He wasn't good friends with the princes during the war, but he knew them. Thaddeus was always laughing and joking with Ivan. They got along like – well, brothers.

"Simply the truth. That he deserved the throne."

Rafe shook his head. "Why? What's wrong with Ivan?"

Lord Luck sighed. "This country… it ought to bigger. And better. More prosperous. We should have taken Aschare completely instead of making a treaty with them. If we had been the first to attack, we would have won the war. But King Nicholas wanted peace, even while we hated each other. We just sat back waited for them to attack. The Great Ascharan Invasion should have been our move."

He paused for a moment and then went on. "We could have still changed things. At the end of the war, there was no way to actually win it, with the way things stood. But some other lords and I made… an executive decision. To assassinate the Ascharan king take over the country like we should have from the start. We would need a strong ruler for that." He met Rafe's eyes. "And one that would agree to it. King Nicholas would have wanted to help them, to get them back on their feet. Ivan wouldn't have known what to do. Or he'd have simply acted like his father. But Thaddeus… Thaddeus listened to us."

"You told him he could be king so you could manipulate him into your grasping political schemes," Rafe surmised. "And that's what you tried to do with me. Maybe you're still trying; I don't know. But I'm not going to assassinate anyone for you."

Lord Luck shrugged. "I didn't ask you to."

Rafe sighed and crossed one leg over his knee, trying to think – to process everything he'd just been told. It wasn't that it was unbelievable. It was just that he didn't want to believe it. "What's the plan now, then? Everything's ruined, isn't it?"

Lord Luck gave another small shrug. "We'll see."

"See what? If you can manipulate Ivan into your plan? If you can manipulate me? And what are you doing with Madeleine at the castle? Making her some sort of spy? She's own your own daughter, Luck. Why would you want her caught up in this? She's family."

He saw Lord Luck's jaw tighten. His eyes moved to the floor. There was a long pause before he spoke. "I used to be a lot like you, Rafe."

"I doubt that," Rafe said, raising an eyebrow at this new turn in the conversation, but Lord Luck just went on.

"I used to run around the country doing anything and everything. My parents died young, so I came into my inheritance early. I had the means and will to do everything I liked. One night, I fell in love and got married on a whim to the loveliest woman I had ever met. When I brought her back here, I thought I was the happiest man alive. Then… I realized these things don't last. Love, family… all those fleeting feelings of happiness. None of it matters in the long run."

"And what does matter?" Rafe asked, crossing his arms skeptically.

"My job. My country. Land. As a lord, it's my job to make my country prosper as much as I can. I've thrown my life into that."

"Don't tell me you actually believe you're doing this for Wyndl."

"What else would I be doing it for, Rafe?" Lord Luck asked, leaning forward in his chair. He spoke slowly, and his eyes were wide, seeming almost desperate for someone to agree with him. "There's nothing else!" His arms waved around him, as if indicating the emptiness of the air.

Rafe frowned. He thought of Madeleine, Blair, Adelle, Edith. Were they all nothing to this man?

"I don't want the throne myself," Lord Luck said now. "I simply want to give Wyndl more land, more people, more everything. Tell me, what's wrong with that?"

"Something is," Rafe said, standing up. "Something." He was done with this conversation.

"If you help me, Blair can be yours," Lord Luck said. "Think of it. Her devastation at the prince's death. Her love so quickly extinguished. And you – able to comfort her. She'll realize you've been there all along."

Rafe hesitated a moment. It made a nice picture in his head. Blair crying in his arms. But Lord Luck was wrong. He was sure of that, and he would never kill Ivan. He shook his head. "I'll see you around, Luck." He started for the door and left the room. Just as he approached the door, he heard a creaking sound on the staircase and glanced up. It was Blair. His hand paused on the doorknob.

"Rafe!" she exclaimed upon seeing him. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm just… leaving," he said. There was no way he was going to explain his visit to her stepfather to her.

"Why were you here at all?" she asked, frowning.

He pursed his lips. "I just was. But now I'm leaving." Then, thinking fast, he flashed her a grin. "I wouldn't want you to become too used to seeing me around. Then it would become all too commonplace, wouldn't it?" He took her hand as she stood at the bottom of the stairs and lifted it to his lips to kiss it – but she yanked it away before his lips touched her skin.

"Leave," she said. "As you were going. I don't want you here. And I would appreciate it if you respected my personal space from now on, as any gentleman ought to." With that, she turned away from him and walked down the hallway in the opposite direction, leaving him standing alone at the door. Blinking a few times, he finally went out and walked slowly toward the stables. He didn't see why she had to be so hard on him all the time. He just wanted to have a good time with her, to enjoy life together. And he would have asked her to marry him, eventually. That was his plan for after the war. But she wanted Ivan now. He wasn't good enough.

If he could just find some way to be good enough.


	10. Chapter 10

Madeleine sat on a fencepost as Simon herded the last of his geese into their pen. "How do you like working at the castle?" he asked, glancing at her as he shut and locked the gate. Once finished, he turned to face her, ignoring the geese honking at him.

She shrugged her shoulders. "It's fine. Not all that different from home. Maybe better even. No one hates me for any personal reasons." She smiled at him and jumped down from the fence, landing on tufts of new spring grass. It made her happy to see signs of spring at last. "To town?" she asked, holding out her hand to Simon.

"I won't be able to stay long," he said. "I'll more or less just walk you there and then leave."

She dropped her hand to her side with a pang of self consciousness. "Well, you don't have to come," she said. She just wanted him to be happy to see her again. But he didn't seem nearly as excited as she had hoped.

"I didn't say I wouldn't," he said, raising an eyebrow at her as he stepped toward the road. "Just that I'd have to leave early."

She watched him for a moment and then skipped after him onto the road. She needed to stop lashing out at him for no reason. Simon was her friend. It was just that… when he didn't seem to care, she felt like she had no friends at all. "Did you miss me?" she asked once they were on their way. "I know your geese did."

He gave her half a smile. "I didn't see you much during the week anyway."

"Oh, thank you, Simon. I see how little an effect my friendship has on your life."

He smiled again. "I was worried about you."

"Don't be," she said. "I have a good job at the castle."

"I still don't understand how your father could have sold you."

She sighed as her walking turned into more of a trudge through the puddles of the uneven road. She thought about telling him – about her father and the spying on Prince Ivan that she was supposed to be doing. She glanced at him, pursing her lips together. He didn't look at her. He kept his eyes straight ahead, like he was thinking of something else.

She knew he'd listen if she told him. And she trusted him, but… it would just be another problem, and he'd try to solve it for her. He'd tell her she could just walk away from everything. She didn't want to hear it.

Finally, she turned to him and forced a smile again. "Why don't you tell me what's been happening around here?" she asked.

He gave a small sigh and then complied. He told her about his geese and his father and the general gossip of Saimes. Most of it revolved around the fact that the royal family was back, so she could confirm or contradict the majority of the rumors he'd heard. Yes, it was true that Prince Ivan was in search of a wife. No, the queen was not obsessed with her appearance. And she was not entirely aware of the trading policy, but she was fairly certain that the castle wasn't secretly buying all their food from Aschare at lower prices.

Before long, they made it into Saimes. Madeleine led the way straight toward Myron Norris's shop, glancing up at the weathered masquerade sign still hanging above. She'd have to tell him to repaint it. He might actually have an opportunity to use his mask making skills now. Simon grabbed the door as they stepped onto the walkway, and they both hurried inside.

Myron was sitting at his desk like the first time they came, but this time he was actually working – on shoes, not masks, to her disappointment. He had some sort of a press on his desk and was carefully forming the sole of a shoe. He glanced up as they entered and took off his spectacles, wiping them on his shirt. "Well, it's the two of you again. Come in," he said, putting his glasses back on his face and leaning back in his chair.

Madeleine scampered to his desk and sat down on the far corner of it, crossing her legs and smoothing her skirt over them. "Hello, Myron," she said. "How are you doing on this fine day?" She smiled at him as Simon came farther into the room behind her.

The old man shrugged and gave a small smile. "I'm all right. How are you doing, Miss Madeleine? Lady Madeleine," he amended, winking at her.

"I'm fine," she said. "I work at the castle now, Myron. Did you know that?"

He shook his head at her. "I didn't. What do you do at the castle?"

"I clean things. It's not terribly exciting, but I do occasionally have conversations with the prince and the queen. And I see the king sometimes, but we don't usually talk."

"Sounds more exciting than my job," said Myron, glancing at the shoe sole he was working with.

"It shouldn't be!" Madeleine protested, thinking of the masks in the back of the room. "Have you heard anything from the castle? Are they going to have a ball anytime soon? They ought to have one. Don't you think so, Simon?"

Simon shrugged. "I suppose so," he said. "If only for Myron's sake."

Myron simply shook his head at them. "I haven't heard anything about a ball. I'm sure they have more than enough to worry about for now."

She sighed. That was true. Prince Ivan went to meetings practically all day, and he always seemed concerned about something. "They do. Although…" she paused, getting an idea. "Ivan is looking for a wife. Maybe he should have a masquerade ball. You did tell me that was a good way to find your true love." She couldn't keep back a smile at the idea of Ivan in love. It wasn't easy to imagine.

Myron crossed his arms. "I did indeed. Unfortunately, politics usually play a larger role than love in royal marriages."

"The king and queen love each other," Madeleine said. "I'm sure of it."

"Lucky for them, then," Myron said. "But coming out of a war, the prince's marriage will be more political than most. His marriage will be an act of reestablishing the country's trust in its leaders."

"And what sort of a woman would reestablish trust, do you think?" Madeleine asked.

Myron shrugged. "There's a reason I'm not a politician. Aside from not being born into nobility, of course."

There was a moment of silence between them all. Madeleine thought of her own life. She was born into nobility, but she certainly wasn't living that sort of a life. If she was – well, Ivan could marry her if he wanted to. Not that he would. But… it was a strange thought, to say the least. Judging by her father, though, she wouldn't want that sort of a life, caught up in court intrigue. Though, she was rather caught up in it anyway.

"Maddie," Simon said after a moment, "I should be getting back. I need to feed my geese before nightfall."

She nodded at him. "All right. I'm going to stay a while. And then go back to the castle, I suppose. It was good to see you."

"I'll see you again next week?" he asked, as he headed to the door.

"Sometime," she said, giving a small smile. He went out the door, and then he was gone. She bit her lip, with the odd feeling that she hadn't really talked to him. Simon had no idea what was going on in her life, and for some reason, she'd rather make small talk with him than tell him. She didn't want to ponder why that was, so she turned to Myron again. "Well," she said, pulling her mouth into a smile.

"Well," he said. "How is life at the castle, then? Aside from the excitement of seeing royalty every day. Do they treat you all right?"

She nodded. "Everyone's fine. Some of them are rude, but… there will always be rude people, I suppose." She was quiet for a moment, looking down at the wooden floor and swinging her feet above it. "My father… sold me to the castle. It wasn't my choice. He's a lord. But I'm just a servant. Because of him."

Myron looked at her. "I'm sorry," he said. That was all he said, and for that she was grateful.

"He's involved in some sort of conspiracy," she said, glancing up from the floor and into his eyes. "I don't know what it is. He wants me to spy on the prince for him. But I like the prince. He's kind. He's a bit of an idiot." She gave a small laugh. "But I like him." She pursed her lips and looked at Myron again, more intensely now – realizing she shouldn't have spilled that secret. It was something she could get in trouble for if she actually told her father something important. It was something her father could be killed for, maybe. It was treason. If anyone found out… "You won't tell anyone, will you?" she choked out in a panic.

He gave a small smile and a light shake of his head. "Tell anyone what? That you like the prince? That's hardly something that needs to be secret."

She let out her breathe quickly. He wouldn't tell anyone. She was sure of it. "I shouldn't listen to him," she went on, pursing her lips together for a moment. "I should leave. But I've never left. And I don't know how to… to not do what he says. I'm not going to tell him anything serious. There's not anything serious to tell. But if I just do what he says a little bit, I can get by. I have to get by somehow." She drew one knee up on the desk and rested her chin on it, looking at Myron. She hoped he didn't think she was some kind of a traitor. She didn't why she told him, except… she needed to tell someone.

He sighed and nodded at her. "Yes. Everyone has to get by. And that is why I'm making shoes for a living," he said, waving one hand at the half finished sole on his desk. "It's not glamorous, but it has to be done."

She nodded her head on her knee cap and looked down at the desk. He understood, she knew, but she still felt like both of them should be doing something else. Myron should be making masks. "Will you make me a mask, Myron?" she asked then.

He blinked at her a few times until she couldn't help but let a smile break through her serious expression, and then a laugh. She sat giggling until he gave a deep chuckle, and soon they were both snorting. When their laughter finally subsided, she wiped tears from her eyes. "Oh, Myron. I haven't laughed that hard in a long time. But I was being serious!"

"Yes, and you'll go about your work at the castle with a jeweled mask, I suppose, looking like an utter fool. That won't attract attention at all." He snorted at her again, and she joined him in laughter, though their mirth was shorter this time.

"All the same," she said at last, "I'll tell Prince Ivan to have a masquerade ball to choose his true love. I'll tell him, and of course he'll listen, and you'll be back in business in no time."

He smiled. "Well, I thank you for your efforts, Madeleine, regardless of how well they work out."

"Oh, they'll work," she said cheerfully. "And Myron, when they do have a ball – will you make me a mask, for real? I just want to go to the ball and see everything. I've never been to anything remotely like a ball, even though I'm a lady by birth. I want to know what it's like."

"Most of the balls I've been to turn into giant festivals that last an entire day and night," Myron said. "And I hope you like dancing, because there's an awful lot of it. They'll usually have fire dancers performing as well as normal partner dancing. Do you know how to dance, Madeleine"

Madeleine didn't reply. She'd nearly stopped listening at the first mention of dancing, and she'd completely stopped at fire dancing. Of course balls involved dancing. That was no surprise, but… still. Dancing was a line of thought she forced herself to cut off every day. She was good at it by now. She almost never thought of… how much she loved it. Tiptoeing around fires, flying over orange flames, whirling through the air. The way it made her feel – full of grace and beauty. When she danced, it was like she was someone else. Someone that was worth something. People wanted to watch her when she danced. They cheered for her, and… loved her. And now, that was all gone.

"Madeleine?" Myron asked. "Are you still there?"

She glanced at him and forced a laugh. "Yes, I – I was just thinking." She bit her lip. "I don't dance," she said at last. "Not anymore."

"Well, you might change your mind once you see a ball. With a prince there. Whom you like." He winked at her, and she laughed for real this time. It wasn't quite like that.

"I doubt it," she said. "But we'll see."

* * *

Ivan stared across the table at Lady Olivia and Lady Elspeth. The conversation was stalling while Rafe devoured the little cakes they had to eat. Everything had been going fine until Rafe started eating. Now Ivan was nervous and sweating. He glanced at Rafe as the man stuffed another cake in his mouth.

Finally, he cleared his throat and looked back at the ladies. "Lady Olivia, what… do you like to do at your home?" Lady Olivia had not been very talkative so far. She laughed at Rafe's jokes and spoke when someone asked her a question but didn't reveal much about herself.

She glanced at him through pale eyelashes. She was a tiny creature and pale like a ghost. Her fingers were long and so thin it seemed like they might break off if she used them too much. "I…" she paused. "I used to spend a lot of time with embroidery. She smoothed her skirt, took a sip of tea, and then kept her eyes carefully pointed down.

"Oh," he said. He thought of asking what she did now, if that was what she used to do. But she didn't seem like she wanted to say more. Still, he felt like he should display some sort of interest. "That, uh… that's good. Embroidery is… it's a useful skill, I'm sure."

Rafe nearly started choking beside him. He turned his eyes on the man with a glare. Rafe just coughed harder until Lady Elspeth asked him if he was all right. He waved a hand at her. "Fine, fine," he got out between coughs.

"And what about you, Lady Elspeth?" he asked as Rafe recovered. "What do you like to do?"

Lady Elspeth squinted her eyes a bit as she thought and looked off into the sky, a small smile on her face. She was prettier than Lady Olivia – healthier seeming, with shiny brown curls and a ready smile. "Riding," she said finally. "And dancing. Those are my favorite things."

"Ah, two of the best occupations in the world!" Rafe interjected then, setting his tea down and grinning at the woman across from him. "What sort of terrain do you like riding on?"

"Oh, nearly anything," Lady Elspeth said, leaning forward across the table in interest. "Though I do prefer a challenge of some sort. I assume you're a decent rider, Sir Thornton? The Thornton Estate is legendary for its grounds and steeds."

"It is indeed!" Rafe agreed with her. "I'll ride anywhere. I especially like having something to jump, though." He then rushed into a vivid description of his estate and the livelihood of his horses.

Ivan simply watched him, wondering how in the world Rafe conversed so easily. And how he even knew all that about his estate – it was his impression that Rafe was never at home. But after a few moments, he'd lost track of the conversation and found he was paying more attention to the design of the tablecloth than what they were saying. He ran his fingers over the edge of the white lace, wondering how old it was, if he'd ever seen it before. He couldn't remember.

When he finally looked up, he noticed Lady Olivia looking at him. She dropped her eyes immediately, but he'd already seen her gaze. He pursed his lips together. Rafe and Lady Elspeth were still talking a mile a minute – their conversation complete with intermittent laughs and all the rises and falls in pitch of a lively conversation.

"Lady Olivia," he said at last, "would you care to take a turn with me about the courtyard?"

She looked up at him and blinked a few times, then rose to her feet a little uncertainly. "Yes, your highness."

He stood up and took her arm, leading her away from the table. He glanced at Rafe as they began to walk away and saw the man wink at him. He gave a small shake of his head and immediately wondered what had possessed him to do this. He had nothing more to say now that they were walking than he did when they were sitting down. And the courtyard still wasn't really cleaned up. The walls around the edges were still covered with tangled vines and had a crumbling sort of appearance. None of the plants were in bloom yet.

He led Lady Olivia down the path lined with brown, leafless bushes and the ground covered in dead leaves. Now and then there were tiny sprigs of green, but it was nothing to marvel at. Still, he found himself asking, "Do you… like the castle, Lady Olivia?"

She glanced up at him. "It's fine, your highness."

"It's not much to look at now, but… someday it will be," he said. He realized as he spoke that he was merely echoing the sentiments of his father – he didn't know if he actually believed it. "I'm sure your own home is much nicer." He forced a laugh at his own statement.

Lady Olivia looked at him and there was a sudden crease between her eyebrows. "My home was burnt down by the Ascharans while my brothers were at war," she said finally in a soft voice, just above a whisper. "We're just now rebuilding. We're living in a barn."

He blinked. "Oh – oh." He swallowed. He didn't know. He had no way of knowing. Maybe if he had asked someone about her, but… she didn't look like she'd been living in a barn! How was he supposed to know? In an effort to redeem himself, he said, "Well, if it makes you feel better, you certainly look well – for someone living in a barn."

She said nothing, and he realized it sounded better in his head. Out loud it sounded… well, insulting.

"I mean… what I mean is, you look… well, you look good. Your… dress is very nice."

She glanced down at the burgundy dress with silver beading. "It's my cousin's dress. She would have been here too. We and Lady Elspeth have the closest estates to the border. My cousin was the closest. She was killed by Ascharans."

He could have bit his tongue out. "I… I'm so sorry," he said, stopping walking in the middle of the path. "When did all this happen?"

She clenched her jaw. "After the last battle. There were still Ascharans in the area. When they heard the war was over, they figured they might as well have one glory raid before a treaty was worked out."

He felt his jaw twitching. He hadn't heard any of this. "I'm sorry," he said again. He could think of nothing else to say.

Lady Olivia stared into the ground.

"I'm sure we could… send people to help. I mean, everyone is a bit busy with the castle right now, but…"

He saw her square her shoulders, and then she turned away from him, walking to look at a thorny hedge growing near the middle of the courtyard. He followed her. "I'm sure it must be uncomfortable living in a barn. It's not very comfortable here either. Everything's sort of old and falling apart, but – "

"You live in a castle," Lady Olivia said, turning to look at him with a glare. Her voice was louder now than it had been this whole time.

He took a step backward.

"My house burnt down," she said again, more emphatically this time, pausing between each word. "You live in a castle, and you think it's falling apart, but at least it's standing. And even if it wasn't, it wouldn't matter, because you would live somewhere. You're royalty, so you'll always have somewhere to live."

He was taken aback by her speech. She sounded so angry. "I – well, that's… I can't help it. It's just how things are."

She looked at him for a long moment without speaking. "Well, maybe it shouldn't be," she said finally. "When the royalty was all away…" She sighed. "It was hard, but we got on. Now you're asking us for taxes so you can build up your castle when we're just trying to get by. And we wish you'd let us do it in peace."

"What – what do you mean?" he asked. "You object to the way we're ruling things?"

She pursed her lips together, staring at the barren hedge. He saw her shoulders move up and down as she took in a deep breath. "I agreed to come to tea here so that I could try to make a better life for my family. All we have now is our title. A royal marriage would change that. But… you're not what I wanted." She turned to look at him for one long moment, then glanced back at the table where Rafe and Lady Elspeth were still engaged in conversation. "I'm going back to join them," she said, turning away from him.

He watched her walk back to the table and sit down, welcomed by both Rafe and Lady Elspeth. Rafe gave him a quizzical glance, and he just shrugged. He wasn't sure where he'd gone wrong. He thought he was asking general questions, and then… everything just fell apart. He blinked a few times and considered going back to sit down, but… he didn't want to. Rafe turned back to the ladies, and he wondered if anyone would care if he slipped away.

There was a doorway leading inside not far from where he was standing. He inched towards it slowly and then opened it, stepping into the dimly lit hallway. Inside, he breathed a sigh of relief. He just wanted away from them. Away from this whole tea business. He didn't like it.

He walked forward and thought about what happened. Lady Olivia was understandably upset. She'd lost her home and some of her family. But it wasn't like he hadn't lost things too. His home here in Saimes didn't feel like home. He wasn't sure anything had ever felt like home. And… he'd lost family. Thaddeus. His hands started shaking. That was his own fault, losing Thaddeus. His fault, and no one else's. He was a murderer. He crossed his arms to try and stop the shaking that seemed to be taking over his whole body now.

When he finally reached his room, he stepped inside and slammed the door shut behind him, leaning against it and breathing hard. He squeezed his eyes shut and took in deep breaths, trying to calm down. When he opened his eyes, Madeleine was there looking at him and holding a broom. He pushed himself off the door and brushed at his sleeves, trying to look more casual. "Madeleine," he said. "Hello."

"Your highness," she said, bowing.

"You don't have to do that," he said, walking farther into the room and sitting down on his bed. It was a new one now. Bigger and in the center of the room. Softer, too. Still, he found sleeping a difficult task.

Did your tea go well?" Madeleine asked after a moment.

He glanced at her and shook his head. "No. It didn't. They're still out there, actually. I walked out."

"That's not a very courteous way to treat the ladies," Madeleine said with a small, amused smile. "What happened?"

He sighed. "She walked out on me first. Well, not out. Just… away. And Rafe was more than engaging enough for the both of them. I don't think they noticed when I left."

"I'm sorry," Madeleine said, starting to work again. Her broom made a rhythmic sound as it swept across the floor.

"It was my fault," he said after a moment. He realized that he'd become accustomed to Madeleine's presence in the short time she'd been working here. Accustomed enough to talk to her about these sort of things, anyway. It was only a little bit deeper than small talk, but… it was odd. He didn't talk to anyone. "I blundered everything," he went on. "Her house burnt down."

He heard the broom stop moving. "What?" Madeleine asked.

He glanced at her and then gave a short laugh at the expression on her face. He supposed it did sound confusing. "I said something about the castle being in disrepair. She said her house was burnt down by Ascharans and her cousin was killed, so… there's that."

"That's terrible," Madeleine said. "Are you going to do something about it?"

He glanced at her a little sheepishly and rubbed at his temple. "I said we could send someone… after the castle is fixed."

She snorted. "It's no wonder she walked away from you then. I probably would have done the same."

He sighed and bowed his head to look down at the floor. "I didn't mean it to sound like that, though. And she said… she said I'd always have somewhere to live because I'm royalty, and that now that we're collecting taxes and things, it was easier without us." When Madeleine didn't respond, he glanced at her. "Was it easier without us, Madeleine?"

She stopped sweeping again and came closer to him. She stood close to the bed, hesitated a moment, and then sat down next to him. "In what sense, exactly?" she asked, crossing one leg over the other and smoothing her skirt.

He shrugged and shifted away from her slightly. "Any sense."

"Well – " she paused for a long moment, thinking. Then she said, "Yes. It was."

He looked at her. That wasn't a helpful response, really. "In what… sense, exactly?" he asked, and then laughed a little that he had simply repeated her question.

She smiled back at him. "Well, in a lot of senses. Taxes, I'm sure. And just… we could do things for ourselves when there was no royalty around. Everyone did their own business. You've made a lot of jobs in coming back to the castle, but… we were doing fine." She was looking away from him now, down at her hands. Her mouth was pressed into a firm line. He wondered what her own life was like before – was it easier?

"What did you do before you came here?" he asked finally.

She glanced at him. "I worked. At home. Not so different from this."

"Did you like it better?" he asked.

She opened her mouth and then shut it, frowning. "In some ways," she said, "but…" She shook her head then, and shrugged. "Did you like your life better before you came here?"

He considered. He always thought he hated war. But… there was a simplicity in fighting that he found himself missing now. "In some ways," he said finally, repeating her answer once again.

The corner of her mouth lifted in a smile. "Which ones?"

He let out his breath and looked at the wall in front of them. "It was just easier. I always knew what I was supposed to be doing. And… Thaddeus."

Madeleine was quiet for a moment. "You were close to him, then?" she asked finally.

He started to speak and then stopped. He wasn't sure how to answer that question. Yes, they were close, until Thaddeus tried to murder him? And if Thaddeus tried to murder him, were they really ever close at all? "I – we – it's just…" His fingers were shaking again. He balled them into fists.

"I'm sorry," Madeleine said. "You don't have to talk about it. Especially to me." She stood and picked up her broom again, resuming sweeping. He watched her and suddenly wished she hadn't. He wanted to keep talking to her. "You ought to send people to help," she said then, "to the border. People don't care about building up the country when they can't build up their own homes."

He nodded. "I can talk to my father about it. I didn't even know."

"You should have," Madeleine said, looking him in the eye.

Ivan looked down at the floor.

"And you know what else?" Madeleine asked then, sounding more cheerful. "You should have a ball to choose your wife. A masquerade ball. It would be splendid."

He blinked as he looked at her again. She was smiling like it was some secret joke only she knew about. "Why?"

She smiled wider. "Because. I have a friend who makes masquerade masks. You should meet him. His masks are lovely, but he hasn't had much business lately."

He kept looking at her. It was easy to talk about having tea and having a ball, but it was all more serious than that. This was his life they were talking about, his marriage. "I don't want to choose a wife."

She paused in her sweeping and leaned against her broom as she looked at him. "Why ever not? You can marry anyone you please. No one is going to say no to you. I'm sure you have the easiest time of any man in the country."

He blinked a few times. That seemed like a strange way of looking at it. Maybe he was just used to looking at it negatively. "I don't… want to get married yet. I just… I don't – with… Thaddeus…"

"I understand," Madeleine broke in. "Still, it could be worse. You don't want to get married. But look at the rest of us. I don't want to – " She broke off mid sentence and bit her lip, looking troubled.

"You don't want to what?" he asked.

Her eyes dragged to him slowly. She shook her head. "It doesn't matter. What would you rather do than get married, your highness?"

He shook his head. "I don't know."

"Well, that makes two of us," she said. "But do have a masquerade ball, Ivan. It could be wonderful."

He gave a small smile. "I'll think about it," he said. He noticed that she said called him Ivan this time, instead of your highness. He liked that.

* * *

_Am I speedy, or am I speedy, folks?_

_GalanthaDreams: fanfiction tells me you have disabled private messaging, so I can no longer reply to your reviews. This saddens me._

_Billi: I think your ipod ate your review AGAIN, because I never got it. HOW RIDICULOUS. But just imagine that I sent a lovely reply to the lovely review I'm sure you meant to send._


	11. Chapter 11

Blair stood near the window. Rain poured onto the ground, while her legs itched to walk somewhere. The thing she liked most about spring was not being shut in the house anymore. Now it was finally getting warm enough to go outside, and it had to be raining.

She glanced behind her at everyone else. The entire family was evidently having some sort of awkward congregation in the parlor. Adelle and Lord Luck sat on the settee with Edith on a chair nearby. Adelle had a book in her hand, though she hadn't turned a page in half an hour. Lord Luck had one leg crossed over the other and one hand at his chin, apparently deep in thought about something. Her mother, on the other hand, was not even pretending to be doing anything useful. She was just hovering there, glancing at everyone and then down at her hands in her lap.

The room was silent. Not a normal silence either – the excruciatingly awkward silence when people ought to be talking but aren't.

It had been like this the entire time since Lord Luck came back and Madeleine left. Lord Luck and her mother ought to have been talking. They were married. Wasn't that what married people did – talk? Her mother and her father did, when he was alive. They could talk for hours on end and actually look happy about it. Lord Luck had a few conversations with her mother, but they were always awkward and halting. When Edith asked questions, he'd give short, stilted answers. Her mother would purse her lips together, like she wanted to ask more but couldn't quite bring herself to prolong the conversation.

Blair hated it. She crossed her arms and turned back to the window, looking out more purposefully now. The garden in front was turning into a lake. The few green stems that had sprouted were now being beaten back into the earth by pulverizing drops of rain. She let out her breath and listened to her irritated huff fill the silence of the room.

She almost missed – well, not missed, but… wished Madeleine was still here. Not that she wanted her presence as a person; she just missed the noise. Between the two of them, the house was anything but silent.

"Is the weather clearing at all, Blair?" her mother finally asked, breaking the still air with her words.

She glanced at Edith and raised one eyebrow. Her mother was probably desperate for some conversation, but it was a stupid question. She could easily see for herself that it wasn't.

"No," Blair said, turning back to the window. Silence. She considered pressing her forehead against the window, but she didn't want to look so dramatic – like she was pining for someone out there, when she was really just stifled in her own home. If only Lord Luck hadn't come back after all.

Then salvation in the form of a carriage on the road – a fancy one too, with a roof to keep whoever was in it dry. That would be useful on a day like this. If she had a carriage like that – well, she wouldn't be here. She'd be anywhere but here. They'd had a carriage like that in Shinsworth. It was probably still there somewhere, with their old house.

She watched as the carriage came closer, assuming it would pass by, but it didn't. The black box came closer until she could make out the curving golden designs, and then it turned onto the drive. It stopped at the shut gate, and a man came out in fine castle livery. He was a messenger, she thought, recognizing the look of him. None had ever come since they'd been living here, but royal messengers used to come to their house in Shinsworth to speak with her father.

The messenger opened the gate and walked up the drive. She turned quickly away from the window and glanced at the rest of them sitting on the furniture. They hadn't seen yet. If she got to the door before anyone else, he'd have to talk to her. Someone would actually talk to her instead of all this silence, and who knew what he would say? Something about Lord Luck's mysterious behavior, or… or something. It had be something worth hearing.

"I'll – be back in a moment," she said to the rest of them, as she nearly bolted for the door. She didn't wait for any response, just went and almost slammed the door behind her in excitement.

Then she really did run – down the hallway, past the staircase, to the front door. It was lucky Madeleine was gone, and Lane and Sara were probably in the kitchen, at the back of the house. She pulled the door open the moment the messenger started knocking. "Hello," she burst out, and looked at him expectantly.

"Hello," he said with a small smile, seeming amused by her winded appearance. "Are you… a lady of the house?" he asked, glancing her up and down as if trying to assess her status.

She nodded, too eager to talk to someone other than her family to be bothered by the fact that it wasn't obvious to him. "Yes. My mother is Lady Edith of Shinsworth. She's married to Lord Luck here."

The messenger smiled broader. "Excellent. In that case, I have an invitation for you." He reached into the bag at his hip and pulled out a blue envelope with silver calligraphy. "From the palace. You – and any other suitable, unmarried young women who live here – are invited to take tea with his highness Prince Ivan."

He held the envelope out to her, and she stared at him, not quite comprehending. Prince Ivan was asking her to tea. The prince of Wyndl was asking her to tea. Well – asking any unmarried woman of the household, apparently. It wasn't explicitly for her – but still. He was the prince, and she was invited to… see him, talk to him, drink tea with him? She reached out and took the envelope warily, wondering if it was some sort of a trick. She looked back at the messenger. "I don't understand. Why is the prince asking me to tea?"

The messenger gave a short laugh. "He's asking all of the ladies of the kingdom to tea. But only a few at a time. You're one of the first set, because you're close." When she only blinked at him, he pursed his lips and then said in a lower voice, "He's looking for a wife." He winked at her. "Good luck." He turned on his heel and strolled back up the drive toward his carriage. He climbed in and the driver sped away while she was still staring out.

Finally, she shut the door, stopping the rain from making dark, wet circles on the envelope and looked down at it. The prince was looking for a wife. By inviting ladies to tea. And she was among the first. For once, she was actually glad to live in Saimes. If she was in Shinsworth, she wouldn't have been one of the first, since it was farther away. Though, if she still lived in Shinsworth, maybe she wouldn't care. In Shinsworth, she was happy with what she had.

Everything then was better, brighter. Her father used to take her and Rafe riding in the hills, exploring the world, he said. He usually left early to go see her mother, and she and Rafe would stay out until evening. He trusted them – trusted Rafe maybe more than he should have, but Rafe behaved himself those times. They just wandered together. Crossing streams, climbing rocks, and heading back slowly under the setting sun, talking all the way.

She shook her head at her own thoughts. Her father was dead. Rafe was a useless lout who didn't care enough to write her a letter. This invitation was a chance at happiness, and she wasn't going to throw it away thinking of the past.

She was among the first – that was good. She could make more of an impression, and he wouldn't be caught up in anyone else. She had a chance, a good chance to marry him and be happy.

When she wandered back to the parlor, she opened the door and walked inside with all three of them staring at her.

"We saw the carriage from the castle," Adelle said. "What was that all about?"

She glanced at her sister and passed the invitation to Edith who was seated closest to the door. "It's an invitation," she said. "To take tea with Prince Ivan. He's looking for a wife."

"A wife!" Adelle exclaimed. She jumped out of her seat and dashed over to Edith, leaning over her to see it better. Edith took the note out of the envelope and read out loud.

"Ladies of the Pennyshire Estate, of Lord Arthur Luck of the village of Saimes, you are cordially invited to take tea with his highness, Prince Ivan Glorodell and his guest Sir Rafe Thornton at two o'clock in the afternoon on the ninth day of the fourth month of the twenty-seventh year of the reign of King Nicholas Glorodell of Wyndl."

Blair's eyes snapped to her mother. "Sir Rafe Thornton," she repeated. "What is he doing with the prince?" She had absolutely no desire to have tea with both of them. It would be terrible. It would be beyond terrible.

"I'm invited too, then," Adelle concluded, smiling. "I'm so excited! Not that I want to marry the prince, necessarily. I mean, I don't even know him. I met him that time in Shinsworth, but I never really got to know him. Not like Prince Thaddeus…"

Blair stared at her sister as she babbled on, shooting daggers with her eyes.

Adelle looked at her then. "Of course, with Rafe there – well, we'll all practically know each other already. It ought to be fun."

Blair clenched her jaw. Adelle would say something idiotic like that. "I don't want to have tea with Rafe Thornton. I've done that more than enough times."

Suddenly Lord Luck laughed and shifted in his settee to look at her. "What's wrong, Blair? Are you afraid Rafe will distract you from the bigger prize?"

Blair blinked a few times. Edith, too, looked slightly shocked, though she said nothing. "I don't know what you mean," she said at last, smoothing her skirt. "It's only that I find Rafe tiresome. I'd much rather get to know the prince without his interruptions."

Lord Luck smiled at her. "You really do want to get to know the prince, then? Have you picked him as your ultimate choice?"

She paused before answering. She was uncertain of why her generally absent stepfather was suddenly taking such a keen interest in her life. What business of it was his? She'd choose her words carefully. "I simply find Prince Ivan to be brave and noble based on my knowledge of him. Of course, I have no truly personal aspirations towards him, but if it so happened that he someday wished to make me his bride, I would be honored. As would any loyal woman of Wyndl."

Lord Luck gave a thin smile. "I see. But of course."

He kept looking at her until she turned her eyes away uncomfortably. Adelle broke in then, "Since it says Ladies of the Pennyshire Estate… does that mean Madeleine, too?"

Blair curled her fingers into fists. She remembered Madeleine's conversation with the prince in the procession. It wasn't long, of course, but… he helped her up off the ground. And then she said something to him so easily, like Madeleine said everything easily. As if nothing mattered but airing her opinions to the world. Madeleine could do what she wanted. She didn't have to act like a lady.

That meant she wasn't a lady, and the invitation didn't include her. She glanced at Lord Luck, hoping he'd feel the same way. They were all looking at him.

Something in his jaw tightened just a hair. "Madeleine has other obligations," he said at last. "She'll be at the castle, doing her job."

There was another uncomfortable silence. No one asked why Lord Luck had no qualms about selling off his daughter for money. No one asked why he'd never shown any concern about her scars. He simply didn't seem to care at all for the only daughter of his late wife.

Those were not questions that ladies asked – and at any rate, it didn't matter. She would win Ivan's attentions, even with Rafe there, no doubt trying to hinder all of her efforts. He didn't matter. Prince Ivan was what mattered. He was everything she wanted. A hero, who had lost things in war but survived and come home victorious. That was what she wanted. A hero.

* * *

Madeleine sat on her cot in the servants' quarters. It was evening, and she finally had a moment to herself. Most of the other servants were occupied with preparations for dinner, but she'd already laid out clothes for the king and queen and Ivan to wear. For the moment, she was free.

A candle burned on the small table next to her bed, and on her lap rested some sheets of paper. She held a quill hovering above the paper in one hand and clutched an ink jar with the other. Ivan had given her all these things when she asked him. He didn't even ask what she wanted them for – just handed them over from his desk without question.

She didn't want to write down her conversations with him for her father. She wouldn't have done it, but he'd come to the castle again. He asked to speak to her directly this time. They were put in a small room with nothing but a table in it. She sat on one side, and he sat on the other and simply said, "Madeleine, I hope you are keeping up with what I told you to do."

She'd bitten her lip and said nothing. Finally, she looked into his eyes and said, "I don't have to do it. I have this job, regardless of what I do or don't do for you."

He smiled then, in a way that suggested she was totally ignorant of the matter. "But you don't, Madeleine. And if you don't do as I ask, I can have it taken away from you. I don't have to let you back into my house either."

She looked down at the scratches in the table. "Well – but… I'll tell them. I'll tell Prince Ivan what you're doing. He'll tell his father and put a stop to it. The king will know you're a traitor."

He smirked again and shook his head. "Who do you think the king is more likely to listen to, Madeleine? One of his most trusted lords, or a scarred servant girl of no importance? The only connection you have that anyone would take seriously is me. I would suggest you don't forget it."

"I… but – " She had stuttered a little more, but in the end, there was nothing left to say. Her father was right. No one would listen to her. He could pin his crimes on her easily, and even if he didn't… if he threw her into the streets, where would she go? To Simon? She couldn't burden him with that. Even if he didn't mind, she did. She needed to be self sufficient, somehow. She needed to figure this out on her own.

So here she was. Pen in hand. She dipped it into the black ink and started to spread dark letters across the page. It didn't matter that much. She and Ivan didn't have any important conversations. It would be fine.

In a few moments, there was a knock on the door, and she jumped, spattering small drops of ink across the page. The other servant girls didn't usually bother knocking, since they all shared the big room. It could be one of the manservants, but they usually didn't come over this way at all, since they had their own room.

She stuffed the papers, pen, and ink under the bed and made sure the quilt was pulled down enough to cover them, then called, "Come in," smoothing her hair and trying to look less guilty.

It was Ivan. She leapt to her feet and made a curtsy. "Your highness," she said, "what are you doing here?"

He glanced around the room awkwardly. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't meant to intrude. I just wanted to talk to you."

She looked around the empty room and then out into the hallway. If any of the other girls came in, this was going to look odd, even though there was nothing wrong between them. "Perhaps we should go somewhere else to talk?"

Ivan nodded. "We can go to my room."

She mentally noted that his room was not any better, but at least there would be less of a chance of anyone walking in on them. She gave a hurried nod, and they walked together out of the room. She followed him through several hallways and finally into his room where she shut the door behind her and turned to him.

"Well, what is it?" she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

He hesitated, looking at the floor. "I know you said you wouldn't help, but… I'm having tea again with other ladies, and last time went so horribly, I was hoping you would change your mind."

She blinked a few times. "I can't really inform you of any of their houses being burnt down, your highness. I don't know anything about them."

"But you do," Ivan said quickly. "I'm having tea with the ladies from the Luck estate. Blair and Adelle. They're your… mistresses."

She glanced at him. Was that what he thought? "Stepsisters," she corrected, without thinking it through.

"What?"

She looked at the floor, rubbing her foot over a stain that she couldn't remove no matter how hard she scrubbed at it, refusing to think about the idiocy of what she'd just said. He didn't need to know that. "Blair and Adelle are my stepsisters," she said at last.

"They – but – " Ivan's voice sounded utterly lost at this new information. "Their mother is Lady Edith, from Shinsworth. Lord Luck is their stepfather. That means… Lord Luck is your father."

She glanced up at him and nodded, forcing a smile and raising her head high. "You've finally put two and two together, your highness. My last name is Luck, after all." Her voice was cruel now – the same haughty tone she used the first time he spoke to her, telling her to stay out of the street to avoid being trampled. But more irritated than amused now. Angry, even.

"But you never said… I assumed your name was just from the estate you worked at. Not that you were actually…"

"Actually what?" she asked, louder now, scars flaring. "The forsaken daughter of a lord? His daughter who isn't good enough to be treated like flesh and blood?"

Ivan was silent. "I… I just didn't realize," he said. "I'm sorry. But then why are you working here?"

"Because my father sold me."

"What do you mean, he sold you?" Ivan asked. "Madeleine, no one can sell you. You're a human being, not some… livestock." He crossed over to her until he was directly in front of her, a few feet away. He stretched his arms forward a little, then brought them back, like he wanted to touch her but wasn't sure how to do so properly. She almost laughed at his attempt.

"He sold me," she said again. "And trust me, he can. But it's not a sudden thing. He's never treated me like his daughter. I've worked for a long time. It's just always been in my home before."

"How long have you been working for him?" Ivan asked.

She shrugged, looking away from him, and rubbed her right arm with her left hand. "I don't know. It's not like I woke up one day and he forced me to be his servant. It… started after he married Edith, I suppose. Then it was clear that Blair and Adelle were ladies of the house, and… I wasn't. But he wasn't really even there. It was Edith's doing, maybe. But even when he was there… he wasn't." She pursed her lips together, her anger mostly extinguished now. She just felt tired.

"What do you mean?" Ivan asked.

She dragged her eyes slowly to his and then looked away again. "It's just… growing up, he was always away on business. And when he did come home, he'd keep to himself. For a while, I had governesses, and I'd always ask them why he didn't want to see me. But they never answered. After he'd been home a day or two, then he'd call me into his study sometimes and ask me things, like… if my reading was going well. What I spent my time with. He always sat across a table from me. He never touched me."

She was shaking now. It started in her fingers with a slight tremor and then moved up her arms, and now she felt like she was shaking all over – like a leaf still stuck on a tree in winter winds, blowing back and forth. She'd never told this to anyone. Not even Simon. She supposed he understood more or less how it was between her and her father, but she'd never actually spoken of it before.

Ivan looked troubled. He didn't say anything, but kept looking at her with a tight jaw and slightly squinted eyes. "I'm sorry, Madeleine. I'm sorry."

The room started to blur then, because he could have said he was sorry in an offhand way, but he said it like he meant something. Normally when she saw him talk to someone – even when he talked to her – it seemed like he was only halfheartedly paying attention, like his mind was always somewhere else, drifting in the trenches of his mind, but now his whole attention was on her.

He finally seemed to make up his mind to do something with his hands and stretched them out, taking her right hand in both of his. He still had calluses from war. She wondered if they'd ever go away. "I'm sorry," he said again. "Can I… can I do something for you? Is there anything I can do?"

She looked away from his face then, at their hands folded together. She'd only told him half the story. She could tell him the rest. She could throw all her problems at his feet, and he could do what he would with them. That was what a prince was supposed to do, wasn't it? Take care of his people?

But she thought of her father being called in for questioning. She thought of him deflecting accusations, turning it all on her. It was her fault, somehow. She was the one taking notes on Ivan's behavior. They'd find them under her bed, they take into account her relationship with him – her winning over his trust, so she could… attack him, or something.

If she said anything against her father, he could have her arrested – killed, maybe, and no one would believe her. Not the king or the queen, and not Ivan. She'd lose his trust. Somehow, that seemed worse than everything else.

She looked at their hands once more and drew hers out of his. "No," she said. "It's fine. I'm fine."

He still looked into her eyes with that curious, attentive expression. "Are you sure?" he asked. "You shouldn't have to live like this."

She sighed. "A lot of people have to live like this. Why should I be any different?"

Ivan looked at her. "But it's your birthright. You were born to be nobility."

She smirked. "It's all just chance. Do you think Thaddeus had any more or less right to the throne than you do? It was just chance that he was born second."

The look on his face changed then, like a stone wall rising up between then. He was back in his own head, focus gone. Maybe she shouldn't have mentioned Thaddeus. It was obviously still hard for him. She was about to change the subject but stopped, thinking suddenly that this was how he acted whenever his brother was brought up. He shut out everything else. This was the sort of information her father was looking for – though it seemed like a fairly normal response to grief. "I'm sorry," she said after a moment, "for… bringing him up. You must have been close."

He looked at her with a seemingly confused expression. "I… we – " He pursed his lips together. "It's… strange, that he's not here." He paused for a moment and looked at the floor, then lifted his eyes back to her with a pained expression. "Do you really think he had just as much entitlement to the throne as I do?"

She shrugged at him, frowning. "It was just an example. I mean, you could have been born the other way around. Why do you ask?"

He shook his head slowly. "It's nothing. I just…" He trailed off, staring into the wall behind her.

"Do you miss him a lot?" she asked. She knew she shouldn't pry, but… she'd just poured out a lifetime of secrets of her own. Didn't that give her some right to ask personal questions?

Ivan looked back at her. "Sometimes," he said after a moment. "And sometimes, I just… I can't understand."

She nodded. "That makes sense. I can imagine it would be hard to comprehend why he's gone."

Ivan looked at her for a long moment. He didn't entirely seem to be agreeing with her. He just looked lost.

Finally she took in a breath. "Well, what was it you actually wanted to know, Ivan? How to behave around my stepsisters to avoid their condemnation?"

He let out his breath and nodded, looking slightly more revived. "Yes. That was what I wanted to know. Although it seems less important now. Do you want me to tell my father about Lord Luck? I'm sure he could do something for you. It's not right. You should… well, you should be coming to tea along with your stepsisters, not cleaning the castle."

That thought was an odd one, considering the reason for her stepsisters coming to tea. She shook her head quickly. "No. It's pointless. I could never be a real lady anyway. I don't look the part."

"Madeleine," he said, but she just shook her head again.

"Blair is the only one you need to worry about. But then Rafe will be with you, so she'll most likely be otherwise occupied. Although…" She considered her stepsister's recent infatuation with Ivan and tried to decide whether or not she should inform him. "She might be more interested in you than him, actually. Just don't bring up anything about her and Rafe in the past. If you want to have a pleasant time, you should separate them as much as possible. Otherwise, they'll just argue. Adelle either won't say much or she'll chatter endlessly. It's difficult to say. But she'll likely be pleased with anything you say or do."

Ivan nodded slowly. She supposed it was too much information for him to really swallow all at once. "Do you… think I'll be all right?" he asked at last.

She took in his desperate expression and suddenly laughed. "Yes, Ivan, I think you'll be fine. They haven't had their house burnt down. It would probably be wise not to discuss Lord Luck either, though. He's a bit of a sore subject for all of us."

Ivan frowned. "Why? I understand for you, but… the rest of them?"

She pursed her lips together. She shouldn't have said anything. She couldn't tell him about her father deserting the army to attend to his… conspiracy concerning the royal family. "It's just… he didn't write to us," she said – that was half the truth. "While he was gone, we heard nothing from him. It was like he abandoned us all."

He nodded. "I'm sorry."

She let out her breath. She got out of that easily. "But you'll be fine, I'm sure. Just… talk to them. Try to smile a bit." He looked at her with a wary expression, and she smiled at him. "Good luck, your highness." And with that, she turned and let herself out the door, walking slowly down the hallway.

"Goodnight, Madeleine," she heard him call after her.

* * *

_I hope everyone has a lovely New Year! And if you're reading this, drop me a line!_


	12. Chapter 12

Blair glanced at Adelle seated across from her in the carriage that had come to bring them to the castle. Her sister had pressed herself up against the window so she'd get a better view when they came close. Blair sat straight against the back of the seat, forcing herself to stay still. She ran one hand through her hair, hoping her curls were staying tidy. She tried so hard to look beautiful today, but she'd have to keep trying to act serene and gentle, like the lady she wanted to be. She knew it would be a fight with Rafe there.

"There it is, Blair, there it is!" Adelle shouted then, pushing herself off the window to face Blair and then pointing back out. "It's the castle!"

Of course then she couldn't stop herself from leaning forward to look. She'd never seen a castle before. Though it was close, they never had any reason to go to it since they'd moved here, and Shinsworth was far from any royal dwellings.

She traced the outlines of the towers with her eyes as they climbed into the sky and became pointed peaks far at the top. In a way, they reminded her of the mountains in Shinsworth. They'd only lived in the hills, but in the distance, they could make out the far off peaks of mountains touched by clouds. The castle was maybe less impressive, but it had that stateliness, that grandeur.

It wasn't long before they crossed over the drawbridge and stopped in front of the castle. She leaned back in her seat so the driver wouldn't think she was common, like she'd never seen a castle before. Adelle straightened herself a bit as well, and then he came around and opened the door for them.

She took his arm to step out, and then stood where she was as he went back for Adelle, the castle towering above her.

"It's so big!" Adelle said, coming next to her.

She glanced at her sister and nodded her head. The driver was getting back in the carriage to take it to the stables. A footman stepped out the front of the castle. "You must be the Luck sisters," he said. "Come with me."

They followed him up the steps of the castle and through the doors. He led them through many hallways and finally to a room where he opened the door for them to go in. "You may wait in here," he said. "His highness Prince Ivan and Sir Rafe will be with you shortly." He bowed and exited the room, shutting the door behind him.

Blair looked around the room. It had a settee and four chairs on one side, and the rest was a large open space with rugs on the floor, surrounded by windows. Adelle went to examine the furniture, but she went straight to the windows. They faced a thick forest. She could see the pointed tops of evergreens swaying in the breeze.

"I wish they would come already," Adelle said. "This waiting makes me nervous."

"There's nothing to be nervous about," she answered, keeping her eyes on the trees. "It's not likely that he'll pick either of us to marry."

"I know," Adelle said. "I just hope it's not too awkward. With… Rafe and everything."

Blair turned to look at her then, with a frown on her face – Rafe was nothing to her, couldn't Adelle understand that? – but then the door opened, and the prince walked in, with Rafe only slightly behind.

She and Adelle both dropped into low curtsies. "Your highness," they said in unison.

The prince gave a short bow back to them. "Lady Blair. Lady Adelle."

"Sir Thornton," Adelle said then, making a smaller curtsey to Rafe, who laughed.

"Adelle," he bowed, and then turned to face her with a grin. "Blair."

She said nothing to him and certainly didn't curtsey. She only looked at him a moment before turning to Prince Ivan, arranging her face into a pleasant smile.

He kept looking back and forth between her and Adelle and then Rafe. Finally, he shook his head slightly, as if remembering what he was supposed to be doing. "I understand that the two of you are acquainted with Sir Thornton."

Adelle laughed at that. "Oh, yes. Blair and Rafe have been – "

"We know each other – " Blair cut in, before Adelle could say something unseemly.

"Extremely well," Rafe interrupted.

" – a little," she finished, glancing at Rafe with a glare.

Prince Ivan did not look like he noticed the oddity of this exchange. He was looking out the window instead, and finally pulled his eyes back, glancing first at Rafe and then at her and Adelle. "Good. I don't have to do introductions then." He gave a small laugh. "May we escort you to the gardens for tea?"

"Yes, please," Adelle said, stepping forward.

Blair saw in a second Rafe's grin as he started to hold his arm out to her, and she wouldn't have it. Instead she dashed in front of Adelle, reaching Ivan's arm first and latching onto it. She made sure to smile up at him once she was there, so she didn't look so suspicious. "Yes, that sounds excellent," she said.

If he noticed what happened, he didn't comment on it, but simply took her arm and led her out the door. From there, they went down just one hallway and out into the courtyard to a table surrounded by a garden. Just to the right were a bunch of lilac trees with little purple buds on them, and on the ground were green shoots of leaves and bushes with just the tiniest hint of leaves starting to unfurl. The sun shone down on the, with just the right amount of shade from the lilacs, so the tablecloth had dappled spots of sunlight.

"This is so beautiful," Blair said, as Ivan pulled her chair away from the table that was draped with a lacy white cloth. "You have a lovely home, your highness."

He gave a small smile as he moved to his own place beside her. "Thank you, my lady. It's not in best of conditions, unfortunately. But we're trying to change that."

"I'm sure you're doing a wonderful job."

Rafe guided Adelle to her own place at the table, leaving for himself the seat directly across from her. He would no doubt stare at her the entire time, but she was determined not to look at him.

"But you haven't seen the rest of the rooms, Blair," he broke in , forcing her to glance at him. "They are in rather poor condition. No offense to you, Ivan."

The prince gave a small shake of his head. "No, I agree with you. But shall we sit down?"

"That sounds like a fine idea," Blair said, shooting a glare at Rafe as she lowered into her seat. The rest of them followed suit, and then there was a moment of silence. She stared down at her plate and could feel Rafe's eyes on her.

"You look very nice today, Blair," he said after a moment.

She glanced at him. "Thank you," she said automatically, though she didn't mean it in the slightest.

There was another long silence before some servants came out carrying refreshments. They placed a tray of small cakes and cookies in the center of the table and quickly poured tea into everyone's cups. Once the servants were back inside, the four of them looked at each other again.

"Why don't you… tell me about yourselves?" Prince Ivan asked then, glancing from Blair to Adelle and back again.

"What would you like to know?" Blair asked.

"Oh… anything," Ivan said, shrugging his shoulders. "Whatever comes to mind."

"Why don't you tell him what you think of Saimes?" Rafe said, smirking across the table. "As opposed to Shinsworth."

Blair looked at him for a moment, thinking of the numerous times she'd told him how much she hated Saimes. She couldn't say that to the prince, of course. Instead she looked at him with a smile. "Well, as you know, your highness, my sister and I only moved to Saimes two years ago when our mother married Lord Luck. It was a bit of a difficult change – as I'm sure you can relate with only just settling here."

Ivan nodded. "Yes, Saimes is… very different from war camps." He gave a small laugh as he looked down at the table, then glanced at her again. "I'm sure it seemed very different for you too. I believe I've been to Shinsworth before, during the war. It's near the northern border, isn't it?"

"Oh, so you do remember!" Blair said, clasping her hands together as she smiled at him. She wanted to seem eager and… familiar to him. Like she actually remembered him from Shinsworth and had been looking for an occasion to see him again. "Your battalion was camped outside Shinsworth for at least a month the spring before we moved. I remember seeing you and your brother walking around the streets sometimes."

"I remember that too," Adelle said. "Prince Thaddeus always seemed so happy – laughing and joking with everyone. He even talked to me… on a few occasions." She looked across the table at Prince Ivan with large, bright eyes.

Prince Ivan looked down at the tablecloth again. "Yes. He… Thaddeus was always like that. He loved talking to everyone."

"He was so kind. You must miss him terribly!" Adelle said. When Ivan kept looking down, she went on hurriedly, "Oh, I – I'm sorry I brought it up. I didn't mean to upset you. I just – I wanted you to know how wonderful I thought he was. I adored your brother, and… I really am sorry he's gone."

"So am I," Ivan said in a low voice.

Blair sighed and crossed her arms, momentarily forgetting to look genteel and ladylike. Instead she glanced across the table at Rafe. His arms were crossed as well, and he was looking at Ivan with a strange expression. He seemed half contemplative and half just annoyed. She felt rather annoyed herself. She didn't want Ivan to turn sentimental about his brother all of the sudden. Yes, he must miss Prince Thaddeus, but they were having tea so he could choose a wife – so he could choose her as his wife – not to mourn his brother some more.

Rafe happened to glance at her then and raised one eyebrow at the expression on her face.

She dropped her arms to her sides immediately. Then she lifted one hand to Ivan's on the table and let it rest there for a moment. "We're all so sorry for your loss, your highness. Why, if I lost Adelle, I don't know what I would do with myself," she said, glancing across the table at her sister. From the corner of her eye, she could see Rafe still sitting there with his arms crossed, just looking at her. She knew his expression would be skeptical without even looking.

"Even with all the bickering?" he asked.

She glanced at him then. "Well, of course," she said, taking her hand from Ivan's. "All siblings bicker. I'm sure you and Thaddeus had your share of fights, your highness. But that doesn't mean you didn't love each other." She noticed Ivan's hands were shaking then.

Rafe chuckled from the other side of the table. "Indeed. Even if you both tried to kill each other, that doesn't mean you don't love each other – isn't that right?"

She glanced at him, not sure what he was getting at. He was looking at Ivan, but Ivan was still staring down at his empty plate, and his hands were still shaking. "Yes. I suppose," she said, in answer to Rafe. "In any case, are you adjusting all right, your highness? To Saimes, I mean."

He nodded slowly. "Yes. It – it's different. But I'll be all right."

"Of course you will," she agreed. "You're brave and intelligent and noble. You'll be just fine."

He finally pulled his eyes from the table to glance at her then. "Do you really think so?" he asked.

She was a little surprised by how uncertain he sounded about it, but she forced herself to smile. At least he wasn't as cocky as Rafe. "Of course I do."

He gave a small smile back at her then – of relief, it seemed like. He took a sip of his tea and then glanced at them all again. "And what do the two of you like to do with your time?" he asked.

Adelle was the first to jump in. "I read and sew and… I've been helping around the house now that Madeleine is gone."

Blair glared at her sister. Why would she bring up Madeleine at a time like this? Adelle knew they were trying to make a good impression on the prince. And she also knew that he and Madeleine had spoken at the procession. Madeleine probably said something rude to him. She always did, and now that she was working at the castle, he could probably put a name to the face. Why bring up that connection?

"Madeleine, yes," Ivan said. "She works at the castle now, doesn't she?"

Adelle pursed her lips then, seeming to remember that the subject was a complicated one. None of them interfered with what Lord Luck did with his daughter, but… it was odd. To a stranger it would seem doubly so. "Yes," Adelle said slowly. "Lord Luck thought that since you needed workers, he might as well hire her out. To fix up the castle and all."

"I do hope she's doing a good job here," Blair said, trying to draw the prince's attention back to her. "I wouldn't want any of your workers to be a disappointment to you."

"Madeleine does a fine job," he said quickly – a little too quickly for her taste. "She's the best maid we have."

"Oh, well, that's wonderful," she said, forcing another smile. "She always did well at home, too. I just wasn't sure how she would adjust to castle life."

Rafe snorted across the table.

"And what do you find so amusing, Sir Thornton?" she asked, turning to face him with raised eyebrows.

He quickly turned his laughter into a cough. "Nothing. Nothing at all, my lady. Although I did have the impression that you weren't so very fond of Madeleine when you lived together."

"We had occasional disagreements," she said. "That's all. It's to be expected."

"Because you're siblings," the prince said slowly, looking at her.

Her mouth nearly fell open. He knew Madeleine was Lord Luck's daughter? He wasn't supposed to know that! At least, she had the impression it was supposed to be a secret. That Lord Luck disguised her as a servant when he made her work at the castle. Of course, she didn't really understand why, but it made no sense to advertise her as his daughter out for sale! "Step-siblings," she found herself correcting, then cursed herself for answering so stupidly. She could have claimed ignorance about their relationship, or… or something. Maybe she could still redeem herself.

"I can't believe what her father has done to her," she said, looking at Prince Ivan with wide eyes. "But I felt there must be some reason, even if we didn't see it. That's why I haven't done anything about it. And I don't know what I could do. Maybe it's better for her just to be away from him."

He was frowning, but he gave a small nod. "I'm glad she got a job here then."

There was a moment of silence before she asked, "Do you see her often, then? I mean, I just want to be sure she's all right here."

He nodded again. "She's all right." He paused before asking, "Are you all right yourself? Lord Luck seems like he could be a dangerous man."

She looked at him for a long moment before answering. She wasn't happy with the idea of him seeing Madeleine often, but she could use it. And he'd actually asked if she was all right. Like he was worried for her. "I'm all right," she said at last. "Lord Luck has never been a problem for any of the rest of us. Just her."

He nodded again. There was more silence. She thought everything was going fairly well, but it was a bit heavy. Rafe was still watching her. She glanced at him for a moment, and he shook his head at her. She squared her jaw. So what if she was lying? She just wanted a chance at something better – couldn't he see that?

She looked back at Ivan and smiled. "Let's talk of lighter things. Would you care to lead me around the garden, your highness?" she asked.

He glanced at her. "Well – certainly. Though I should hate for Adelle to be left out." He glanced at her sister.

"Oh, Rafe will keep her company," she said, smiling across the table at the two of them. "You won't mind, will you, Rafe? Do be sweet this once."

Rafe looked at her with a very blank expression before shrugging. "Of course not. Why would I mind? Go ahead. Walk with the prince. Leave the two of us." He waved them away in a nearly violent manner, which she refused to acknowledge.

She simply turned to Ivan with another smile and took his arm as he stood up. He led her slowly through the courtyard, pointing out various budding flowers along the way. She smiled at each of them and remarked on how beautiful it would be when they all bloomed.

When they were nearing the table again, she stopped walking and turned to face him. "I'm glad I was able to come here today, your highness. I know all of this is in search of a wife for you, but regardless of who you end up choosing, I'm glad I could get to know you better. I'm glad you're the one with the country in your hands. I trust you'll do you best with it."

He gave a small smile, and seemed a bit confused by her speech. "I thank you for your vote of confidence, my lady. I only hope I can live up to your expectations."

"I've no doubt you will," she said, looking up at him.

At that moment, Adelle stood up from the table where she'd been sitting with Rafe and called to her, "Blair we should be going. It's getting late, and we have things to do at home. I'm sure his highness does as well."

Blair glanced at her sister and then at Rafe with a frown. She was sure Rafe had put Adelle up to it. They didn't need to leave yet. She didn't want to end her time with the prince. Still, she supposed this was as good an end as any. She glanced up at him again. "Well, your highness. It's been lovely." She gave a deep curtsy, and he bowed back at her.

"My lady, it's certainly been fine. Perhaps we'll see each other again."

"That would be magnificent," she said, turning back to the table. Adelle was up and ready to go with Rafe at her side.

"I'll escort you to your carriage," the prince said.

She took his arm and smiled at Rafe who was watching her with a frown. The four of them walked out of the courtyard together, and when she and Adelle were finally driving away in the carriage, she leaned back against the seat with a smile on her face. Today was a success.

* * *

Rafe paced up and down the hallway closest to his room. He didn't know what to do. Tea did not go the way he wanted it to. Blair played her part far too well. He thought Ivan would have been able to see through her. He saw through her easily enough, but Ivan was apparently too engrossed in his own problems to notice that it was all a façade.

He could tell Ivan. Tell him that Blair wasn't what he thought. Everything she said was just a ruse to win him over. She didn't care about Madeleine, didn't remember him from Shinsworth. But telling him wouldn't solve the real problem. He needed Blair to change, not Ivan. Ivan was innocent in all this. He behaved like a gentleman to a woman who behaved like a lady. But it wasn't true.

He could tell Blair that Ivan killed Thaddeus. Not that it was Ivan's fault, necessarily, but… he needed Blair to lose her good opinion of Ivan. If he told her the prince killed his twin brother, that ought to shock her. Maybe enough to make her wake up and see that she wasn't in love with him. He could twist the story around to make Ivan seem more like the villain.

But… that wasn't fair either. And he liked Ivan.

He rounded the corner for the eleventh time and suddenly ran straight into Madeleine, who was coming from the opposite direction. "Oh," he said. "Madeleine. Fancy seeing you here."

"Fancy indeed," she said, stepping backward and giving him a level look. "What are you doing?"

"I'm just… walking," he said. "What are you doing."

"My job. How was tea with my stepsisters?"

He frowned. He wanted to punch something. He thought about punching the wall, but… he was slightly more intelligent than that. "Terrible. I mean, fine from Ivan's point of view, I'm sure. But for me, it was terrible."

She raised an eyebrow. "Why? What happened?"

He sighed. "Just Blair throwing herself at him. Acting like she cared about his… princely duties and all that. Like she really wanted to get to know him."

"Oh," Madeleine said. "How did Ivan… react to that?"

"He bought it completely," Rafe said, nearly shouting as he waved his hands in the air for emphasis. "Like Blair would actually act like that every day of her life – like some sophisticated lady."

Madeleine rose one eyebrow. "You paint her in a rather negative light for apparently being in love with her, Rafe."

"Look, I'm not saying it's a bad thing. I'm just saying she's not a sweet, tame lady like she's pretending. I like her that way. Hell, I love her. But she'd never get along with Ivan – not being her real self. She's doing a disservice to both of them if she goes on acting like this."

"You're saying... he was – attracted to her?" Madeleine asked. Her eyes were fixed on him intently.

He threw his arms up in the air and paced in the other direction. "I don't know. I mean, he wasn't not attracted. It wasn't like he was kissing her feet as she left, but I'd say he definitely seemed more… like a normal person with her than with anyone else I've seen him with."

Madeleine straightened her posture. He thought she even squared her jaw. "Well, you haven't seen him with everyone."

He looked at her more carefully then. "What?"

"Nothing," she said quickly. "What are you going to do about it?"

He let out his breath slowly and ran his fingers through his hair. "I don't know. Something. I'm not going to lose her just because she's got it into her head that she should marry a prince."

Madeleine looked at him for a long moment. "Why don't you just tell her how you feel?" she asked at last.

"She's not going to listen!" he shouted. He rubbed at his forehead, feeling the injustice of it all over again. "I've tried being charming, and she just turns me out. She'd hardly look at me during tea. She wants nothing to do with me."

Madeleine just looked at him, seeming to have nothing to say about the predicament. She looked like she cared, though, which he appreciated. If it had been Blair, she probably would have just told him he was an idiot.. He sighed and then let silence fill the hallway.

"Have you seen your father lately?" he asked after a moment, quieter now than he'd been for the rest of their conversation.

She pursed her lips together. "No. Why?"

He shrugged at her, ad they looked at each other. She knew as well as he did what he was getting at.

"I'm supposed to see him in three days," she said after a moment, looking toward the floor.

"Are you going to?" he asked.

She raised her eyes to his slowly. "I don't have a choice," she said.

He nodded, looking downward as well.

"But you do, Rafe!" she said suddenly, louder now as she looked up at him. "You don't have to see him, ever. I don't know what he wants with you, but you don't have to listen to him."

He looked at her. She was right, he supposed. Normally, he wouldn't have given Lord Luck's schemes a second thought. He wanted nothing to do with it. But… there was Blair to consider. "If you had just one way of getting the only thing you really wanted…"

"But Blair doesn't like him either!" Madeleine protested. "He doesn't control her."

"But he has influence," Rafe argued. "You have to admit that. You've seen what he's done to you. Do you think Edith will protest anything he decides to do with Blair? He runs all over her. She'll agree to anything. Your father can – "

"Can what, give Blair to you like a slave?"

He shook his head. "No. I wouldn't want that. But he can stop her from marrying Ivan. You know he could." She watched him, and he went on, "I just need time, Madeleine. Time to win her back, but I can't do that if she's getting herself married off to Ivan."

She took in a deep breath. "Rafe… what does my father want with you?"

He shrugged at her. "I don't know, really. But if I just say I'm going along with him… he can do things for me. That's all I'm going to do."

"Just pretend?" Madeleine asked.

He nodded. "Something like that. That's all your doing, isn't it – with this spying scheme? You don't want a part in it, but you just do the little things, to make him think he has his way. I'm right, aren't I?" He wanted her to see that it was the same thing. They were doing the exact same thing, and whether or not it was right or wrong… they both had to do it.

She bit her lip, nodding. "It's just easier this way."

"Exactly," he said. "That's why I'm going to tell him I agree with him and I'll do what he asks."

"Rafe, just… don't do anything stupid, all right? My father hasn't told me much, but he's not up to any good."

Rafe thought of the way Lord Luck manipulated Thaddeus into murder. Agreeing to something like that would change everything. He clenched his jaw. "I won't do anything stupid," he said. He wouldn't let it come to that. Murder was a lot to ask of anyone. If he just went along with Lord Luck on the small things for now, surely that would be enough. He looked back at Madeleine. She still looked worried. He grinned at her. "Would you like a ride to your father's house, then, when you go? I'm free for the offer."

She nodded, giving a small smile. "That would be nice."

He bowed to her. "I'll see you then, Madeleine." He turned back toward his room. He still wondered if maybe this was too much. He could still try talking to them. But… he knew Blair wouldn't listen, and he couldn't bring himself to beg Ivan to stay away from a woman who clearly wanted nothing to do with him. And he just couldn't lose her.

* * *

_Thus it goes. Reviews would be lovely._


	13. Chapter 13

Madeleine walked slowly toward the hallway that housed the royal bedrooms. She bit her lip thinking of everything Rafe had just told her. Ivan liked Blair, apparently. That was just wonderful. Just so wonderful. She dropped her hands to her sides and sighed. She had no reason to be irritated. It wasn't her business. Ivan could marry who he liked. He was the prince.

It was just – she didn't want to wait on Blair anymore. If Ivan married her, she'd have to. It would be miserable. She'd have to quit. But where would she go? If Ivan married Blair, it would throw off her life entirely.

As she neared the bedrooms, the queen stepped out of hers with wide, searching eyes. When she spotted Madeleine, she came forward immediately and grasped her arm. "Oh Madeleine, thank goodness you're here. I need your advice on something."

Madeleine frowned. "On what, your majesty?"

"Come into my room," the queen said, pulling her inside and shutting the door behind her.

Inside, Madeleine looked at the queen quizzically. Queen Sidonie had been friendlier since Ivan had spoken to her, taking time to ask about Madeleine's day and even a little about her home and family. She didn't like answering those questions, though. She didn't feel like she could be honest about them, so she just skirted around them as much as she could. She told the queen that her mother was dead and her father was often busy, but did her best to give no indication of just who her parents were. She said she liked Lord Luck's estate but she found the castle a rather more diverting location to work at. That was true, in a way. Just a bit lacking in the weight of the situation.

"Ivan's birthday is in three days," the queen said, "and I want to do something special for him. I'd throw a party, but we don't really have the means yet, and… I'm not sure he would enjoy that. He's not quite accustomed to court life yet, as you may have noticed."

Madeleine nodded. "Yes, your majesty."

"Anyway, I know he's… fond of you. He speaks of you occasionally, and I feel that he must interact with you more than most of the other servants. Initially, I was bit… confused by this. I mean, not as any negative reflection on you, dear, but it's unusual, as I'm sure you're aware…" She trailed off with a small laugh.

Madeleine watched her, unsure of where this was going.

"I was wondering, since you've gotten to know him at least fairly well, if you would have any idea of what he would like to do for his birthday?"

Madeleine blinked. "I'm afraid I don't know, your majesty."

The queen sighed. "No, I suppose it's a lot to expect of you. You are only a maid, and I don't even know what he would like." She laughed again, though it sounded a little hollow. "I was thinking, though, that perhaps he would enjoy a picnic – somewhere away from the castle and all our royal duties for a day. What do you think?"

Madeleine did not have the faintest idea of whether or not Ivan would enjoy a picnic. She did think he would enjoy getting away from the castle, though. "That sounds like a fine idea, your majesty," she said after a moment.

"Oh, good," the queen said, smiling. "I think it will just be Ivan, his father, myself, and Sir Thornton. A small affair would be best, I think. We'll leave in the morning and spend all day out. And I was hoping that perhaps you could lead us to a nice spot for it. I'm sure you know of somewhere in the area."

Madeleine swallowed, remembering that both she and Rafe had other plans for that day. "Actually, I'm supposed to be going back to the estate in three days. Lord Luck wishes to see me."

"Oh," the queen said. She gave a long sigh. "Well, I suppose we can find someone else. It's just that you're so familiar to all of us, I hoped that you could be the one."

Madeleine bit her lip. She didn't like disappointing the queen. And… she wanted to see Ivan on his birthday, even if she wasn't entirely convinced that she knew of a good picnic location. She could at least try. "Lord Luck does usually only talk to me early in the morning when I go back," she began hesitantly. "I'm sure if I asked him, he wouldn't mind if I came back to escort you all afterwards. Once he knows it's for the prince."

The queen's face lit up immediately. "Do you think so?"

She nodded. Once her father spoke to her, she was free to go. He didn't care where she went.

"Oh, good!" the queen exclaimed. "We'll leave as soon as you're back then. I'll have all of us waiting for you in the east drawing room. And you don't have to stay with us after we find the place, if you don't want. Though you're free to, of course."

She nodded again, then bit her lip as she considered the logistics of this. Rafe might complicate things, but… they'd just have to hurry back together when they were both done speaking to her father. Then Rafe could go in and say he'd overslept. It wouldn't be unusual for him.

The queen's smile faltered after a moment. "Ivan won't be expecting to celebrate his birthday, what with Thaddeus..."

"Oh, I… I didn't…" Madeleine stammered before looking down at the floor, feeling her face flush. Of course it wasn't only Ivan's birthday. It was Thaddeus's too. They were twins. But the queen seemed so excited about her plan that she'd nearly forgotten.

"You must think me heartless, happily planning a picnic for one son while the other is barely cold in his grave." The queen's voice, now devoid of her previous warmth, sounded steeped in despair.

Madeleine looked up. "No, I – "

"It's not easy for me," the queen said slowly, meeting her eyes. "I remember when they were both born, such handsome boys. Always together. I'll be thinking of that every moment. But I want Ivan to be able to celebrate his birthdays and not always be weighed down by his brother's death. And he deserves some rest. None of this transition has been easy for us. I want him to enjoy his surprise."

Madeleine gave a small smile and nodded. "I do too," she said softly. She felt that this speech wasn't something the queen needed to tell her. She didn't need to hear any of the queen's reasoning – any of her thoughts at all, but she'd been allowed to hear these most intimate ones.

The queen smiled at her. "Well, that's all then. Why don't you go see Ivan? Remind him to meet his father and I in the east drawing room after breakfast in three days. But don't mention his birthday. He hasn't spoken of it. Perhaps he's blocked out the date. I don't want to remind him until we're celebrating, so he can be happy about it."

"Yes, your majesty," Madeleine said. She curtsied to the queen and left the room in a daze. She still didn't understand why the queen seemed to trust her. She was just a servant. Only a few weeks ago, she'd wanted to get rid of her. But with one reminder from her son, her entire attitude had changed. She almost wondered if the woman was faking it, but… she just couldn't believe it. What reason would the queen have for faking something like that?

She reached Ivan's room in a matter of moments and knocked on the door. She didn't know where he would be at this time of day, and she felt she ought to respect his privacy, since this wasn't a time she normally came around. A few moments passed and then the door opened with Ivan standing behind it.

"Madeleine," he said and arranged his face into a smile, though she recognized it more as the look he gave when he wanted to seem polite but his mind was elsewhere. "Did you need something?" he asked.

She gave a short, nervous laugh. "No, just – the queen sent me. She wanted me to remind you about your meeting with her and the king in three days."

He blinked a few times. "Oh," he said at last. "All right. It seems a bit early for a reminder. I'm usually reminded of my meetings thousands of times before they actually happen, so I wasn't very worried about missing it."

She shrugged. "I guess it's an important one."

He was silent for a moment, and he seemed to drift away from her. She wanted to know what he was thinking about. Did he remember his birthday was coming up, or had he actually blocked it out like the queen suggested? She knew she ought to leave, but she wanted to talk to him. "Did your tea go all right?" she asked finally.

Ivan glanced at her again and nodded. "Yes, actually. I didn't seem to blunder anything too badly this time." He gave a small laugh. "Your stepsisters seem quite kind, actually. I had the impression they wouldn't be. Blair, especially. You said she'd be difficult, but she wasn't."

Madeleine looked downward, feeling an unwanted flush rise up her scars. "You… liked her, then?"

Ivan shrugged. "As far as the ladies I've met go, yes."

"Could you see yourself marrying her?" Madeleine asked, glancing quickly into his eyes.

"I don't know about that," he said. "I don't know about marrying anyone right now. I have a lot on my mind. I can't think about marriage."

"But you are thinking about it," she said. "You have to. That's what all these teas are for."

Ivan looked at her. His face still seemed clouded but he seemed to consider her words. "I suppose so. But it's a lot to take in. I could talk to Lady Blair more than I could talk to other people, somewhat. Though it wasn't like you, or…" He trailed off, failing to supply another example.

There was a long silence in which Madeleine could feel her heart beat all the way down in her stomach, and it seemed to skip a beat – though not in a happy way, just in an odd way. It wasn't exactly something to be happy about, Ivan being able to talk to her so freely. She liked him, but… it didn't matter. He'd marry someone, and she'd leave. She felt sure of that. No matter who he married, she wouldn't stick around to see it.

"In any case," Ivan said, "I won't be marrying anyone for some time. You can be at ease. I mean – not that you weren't at ease. Just… you know what I mean."

She nodded. They looked at each other and the moment seemed to stretch out for hours, comfortable and uncomfortable at once. Finally she took a deep breath. "Well, I'll leave you then. Goodnight, Ivan."

"Goodnight, Madeleine," he said.

She curtsied, and he bowed, and then she walked away from him. Back to the servants' quarters. Back to real life.

* * *

Rafe dismounted from his horse in front of the Luck house and then reached a hand to help Madeleine down behind him. Once she was on the ground, she reached into his saddlebag, pulling out the stack of papers she'd brought. He glanced at them but didn't ask what they were about. "Do you want to go first, or should I?" he asked.

"We might as well talk to him at the same time," Madeleine said. "It'll go faster that way."

Rafe hesitated a moment. "Don't you think that would be a bit strange, though?"

Madeleine gave him half a smile. "No more than it already is. Come on." She took the horse's bridle from him and started leading it toward the stables. He rushed to catch up and then took it back from her. He didn't need Madeleine to do his work for him. She wasn't his servant.

"What do you think of this whole birthday party business?" he asked as she opened the door of the stable for him.

She looked back at him blankly. "It's a birthday party. What am I supposed to think?"

He shrugged. "I've just never been much of one for family picnics. I'm not sure what to expect. Do you?"

She laughed then – loudly, and with just a touch of bitterness. "You know my family, Rafe. Do we look like the family picnic type?"

He looked down as he led his horse into a stall and shut the gate. "No, of course not," he said, turning back toward the doorway. "It was stupid of me to ask."

She caught up with him as they walked outside again. "Did you never go on family picnics with your father?"

He shook his head slightly. "I suppose we might have when my mother was alive, but I don't remember it. For my birthday, he let me do whatever I wanted, which usually consisted of running as far from home as possible and getting as dirty as possible." He gave half a smile in fond memories of tall trees and muddy creeks.

"By yourself?" Madeleine asked, her head turned to look at him.

He nodded. "When I was older, I went to see Blair if I could."

They were at the door to the house now, and he raised his hand to knock, but Madeleine just turned the knob and went in, glancing at him with one raised brow. "It's my house."

"So it is," he said, following as she led the way up the staircase. "Where are we going?" he asked. Last time he'd talked to Lord Luck in the parlor, on the first floor.

"His study," Madeleine said, glancing back at him. At the top of the stairs, she went to the second door on the right and opened it, stepping inside. He followed just behind her.

Lord Luck looked up as they entered. He was seated at a desk in a large armchair. There was a small flicker of surprise as he saw Rafe, but it faded quickly into his usual blank expression. "Rafe," he said, "I wasn't expecting you. You seemed rather repulsed at our last visit."

Rafe glanced at Madeleine. It hadn't escaped his notice that her father had not so much as acknowledged her presence. He wanted to say something – about what Lord Luck was doing with her, that he still thought the man was an idiot and he wanted nothing to do with him, but none of that would help his cause. He needed Lord Luck on his side, at least for now. Finally, he shrugged. "You have something I want."

"You mean Blair," Lord Luck said, crossing one leg over the other. "I can't exactly control her, you know."

"I know, but that doesn't mean you don't have influence," he said. "You could stop her from marrying Ivan, if it came to that."

"Perhaps," Lord Luck said.

His indifferent tone unnerved Rafe. Another thought popped into his head. "But that could be your plan. If Blair married Ivan, you'd be one step closer to controlling the throne." He clenched his jaw, looking the man straight in the eyes. "You wanted me to work with you. If I do, you guarantee that doesn't happen."

Lord Luck looked at him and shifted his weight in his seat. Then he glanced at Madeleine. "Madeleine, give me the notes that you've prepared this week."

She stepped forward and handed her papers to him.

Rafe crossed his arms as Lord Luck shuffled through the pile, scanning the words she'd written. He didn't understand what was happening – why the man had suddenly shifted his attention to Madeleine in the middle of their conversation. Perhaps Lord Luck's decision on whether or not to accept his offer relied on something Madeleine had written – advice or something. But that seemed unlikely.

Finally Lord Luck looked up at her. "I'm glad you seem to be working your way into the prince's confidence, but I expect more substance from you in the future. This is hardly useful to me."

"These are the interactions I've had with the prince. I don't know what more you want," Madeleine said quietly.

Lord Luck looked at her a moment longer and something around his eyes wrinkled a bit, a moment of indecision, then he turned back to Rafe. "Fine. I'll keep Blair from marrying Prince Ivan if you do what I ask of you."

"And what would that be?" Rafe asked. "I'm not going to kill Ivan for you. He may not be the best leader, but – "

"What are you talking about?" Madeleine interrupted. "Why would you kill Ivan? You can't just go around killing people! I don't want any more part in this if you're – "

"Madeleine, go in the hallway," Lord Luck said.

She stared at him for a moment, pursing her lips together. She looked angry and scared at once, and Rafe realized then that she didn't know anything. She spied on Ivan for Lord Luck, but he didn't give her so much as a clue as to what he was planning. Finally she turned and walked out the door, slamming it shut behind her.

"You know she'll be listening at the doorway," Rafe said when she was gone. She was enough like Blair that he could predict that easily. Both of them were incredibly stubborn. They might look like they were doing what you wanted, but they'd get their own way somehow.

"So talk quietly," Lord Luck in a low voice, barely above a whisper.

"Does she know Ivan killed Thaddeus?" Rafe asked. He thought he knew the answer, but he wanted to be sure he was on the same page as Lord Luck.

"No," Lord Luck said. "She doesn't need to."

Rafe nodded. "The less she knows the better. This is treason. She'll have less chance of getting caught and punished if she doesn't know."

Lord Luck looked at him. "Make what you will of my motives," he said at last. "I don't need you to kill anyone at the moment. There's much more to consider than that. We have to be flexible with the current complications in our plan."

"What, you mean Ivan still being alive? What is your plan, anyway? If your goal was just to take over Aschare, why didn't you assassinate the king yourself while we were still over there?"

"King Nicholas wouldn't have taken over Aschare if their king was killed. He would have wanted to help get them back on their own feet. Perhaps he would have listened to Thaddeus, had he been alive, but after his death there was no one powerful enough willing to act outside the treaty."

"So you want to kill King Nicholas?" Rafe asked. "I'm not doing that for you either."

Lord Luck shook his head, waving a hand in dismissal. "Please. All this talk of killing. We're not barbarians, and if King Nicholas died now, the entire country would be in chaos. If we were planning on removing him from the picture, we would need a definite plan in place for afterward."

"All right," Rafe said. He wasn't really getting the picture. Lord Luck still seemed extremely close-lipped about all of his plans, especially for just having let him into his… secret society of treasonous nobility. "What do you want me to do?"

"At the moment, I simply want you to get close to Ivan. Evaluate his stance on the country. Could he be swayed to see it our way? To see that Wyndl could be bigger and stronger than it's ever been? Or is he too much his father's son?"

"You want me to convince him to go back to war in Aschare," Rafe said. "Only… dirtier war. Assassinating their king first and then taking over." It seemed like simple enough task, though it would most likely be harder to put into action.

"If you can, yes."

"And if I can't?" he asked.

Lord Luck leaned back in his chair. "Well. Then the game changes."

Rafe bit his tongue. He wanted to say this wasn't a game. These were people's lives he was playing with. But perhaps it was all the same to Lord Luck. "All right. Is that all then?"

"More or less," Lord Luck said. "You and I aren't the only ones involved in this scheme. There will be a meeting soon, which you will be expected to attend. Watch for the sign. A blue rose means we're meeting here. Yellow means the woods off of the river landing. Always after first watch is finished. Red means the meeting is off."

Rafe frowned. He spotted a vase full of colored roses on the mantel behind Lord Luck's desk. "Is that what all those are for then?" he asked, pointing to them. It seemed like a strange code for a group lords to employ.

"No," Lord Luck said quickly, his face turned to blanker and stonier than before. "Those belonged to my wife. That has nothing to do with this."

"Old roses," Rafe said, raising his eyebrows. "She died a long time ago, didn't she?" He was surprised that Lord Luck would have kept them for so long. They must have been ready to turn to dust by now.

"When Madeleine was born, yes," Lord Luck said. "But they're dried. They keep."

"Didn't think you were one for such nostalgia." He watched Lord Luck's eyes and mouth, searching for some sign of emotion, some sign that he was human after all.

"I kept them where they were. And put the idea of colored roses to some use. That is all. Now if you have no further questions, I would ask that you leave my house." His voice was terse and short, almost angry. Was that the only emotion he knew how to express?

"Will Madeleine be at the meeting?" Rafe asked finally.

"No, of course not," Lord Luck replied. "She doesn't know anything."

He hesitated a moment. He had gotten himself into this by choice, but Madeleine was sold to the castle, probably only obeying her father out of fear. She didn't deserve it. "I don't know what you're planning with her exactly, but if she doesn't know anything, she can't be all that useful to you. And now that I'll be… working with Ivan, you don't really need her. Why don't you just let her be a normal maid, forget the spying?"

"Madeleine is merely another way to monitor the prince's activities. Two sources of information are better than one, Rafe. And what she tells me will let me know whether or not you're succeeding at your job."

Rafe pursed his lips for a moment. Well, it was worth a try. "All right. Fine. I'll leave you." He raised one hand in a mock salute and turned toward the door, glad to be leaving Lord Luck's company.

Outside, Madeleine was waiting just outside the door. "Let's go," he said to her, leading the way down the stairs and out the front door, toward the stables once again.

"Well, what did he say?" Madeleine asked once they were outside. "You could have talked loud enough for me to hear."

Rafe gave a thin smile as he opened the stable door and followed her inside. He was right. He knew she'd be listening. "Your father probably would have killed me on the spot if I did. Anyway, I'd tell you everything now, but… I actually agree with him on this one thing. The less you know, the safer you'll be."

Madeleine stared at him. "I doubt my father is at all concerned for my safety, Rafe. He sold me to the castle so I could be a spy for him, without asking at all about what I wanted. He doesn't care. He never has."

Rafe sighed. "All right, perhaps that's not his reasoning for keeping you in the dark, but that doesn't make it any less true. What if you get caught with those notes about Ivan?"

"What if I do?" Madeleine asked, sticking her chin out at him.

"If you don't know anything, you can just say you were hired to do it and you don't know why. You're believable then, innocent. A harmless maid. You won't get in any real trouble. But if you get caught and you know everything, you are privy to treason. You go to prison at best, and you're executed at worst; do you want that, Madeleine?"

She looked down at the straw on the stable floor, squaring her jaw. "That's what'll happen to you, if you get caught," she said quietly.

"Yes, and it doesn't need to happen to you too. I chose this, Madeleine."

He heard her breath let out in a long sigh. "Just tell me you're not going to do anything that will hurt Ivan," she said, glancing up into his eyes.

He narrowed his eyes. This was the second time she'd mentioned Ivan. She seemed incredibly concerned about his well-being. "What, are you in love with him?"

"We're friends, that's all," she said.

He didn't answer for a moment. He wasn't going to kill Ivan, but he was going to try and convince him to go back to war. To face all those memories that had turned him into a shell of himself, and not only to go back to war but to abandon his morals and approve the assassination of a king. Maybe two kings, to get past King Nicholas. No, he was not going to kill Ivan, but if he succeeded in what Lord Luck wanted, Ivan would never be the same.

And he had to tell this to Madeleine, or else lie to her, and he didn't want to do either. He was beginning to realize the gravity of what he'd agreed to. Madeleine was the only one who knew what he was doing and understood and trusted him in spite of it, and he wanted her to keep trusting him because he was trustworthy, not because of lies he told her.

"I won't hurt him. I promise," he said in a low voice. He looked into her eyes as he said it, hoping it was a promise he could keep. He only had to follow Lord Luck's instructions as long as it took to win Blair back and then he could stop. It took a while to convince anyone to go to war, surely. It would be fine. He'd keep his promise. He wouldn't hurt anyone.

"All right," Madeleine said, giving him a small smile. "Let's go then. Ivan's birthday picnic awaits."

He smiled back at her and led his horse out of its stall, then through the stable door, which Madeleine shut behind them. When they reached the road, he climbed into the saddle and held a hand down for Madeleine, helping her on behind him. Once she was safely seated, he flicked the reins and they started toward the castle at a gallop.

* * *

Thank you all for your patience with me! Please drop me a line.


	14. Chapter 14

Ivan stared down at his hands. His parents were talking, but he'd long ago lost the thread of conversation. It was his birthday. They hadn't mentioned it, and he was beginning to wonder if they even knew. They had to know, didn't they? Maybe they'd decided to just block it out. He wished he could do the same.

His fingers all had tiny scars on them – nicks and cuts from battles he could scarcely remember. He wondered if they'd ever go away. After a moment he looked at his parents again. Their conversation had halted into silence, everyone staring at the floor.

Finally the door sprung open and Rafe strolled in, a welcome distraction. "Sorry I'm late," he said. "Slept through breakfast again. Couldn't help it."

"That's perfectly all right, Rafe. We're glad you're here," his mother said, smiling at Rafe.

Ivan looked from his mother to Rafe, unsure of what was happening. All his parents had said was that they were having a small meeting after breakfast. He assumed they were waiting for someone important. Not Rafe.

"Would you like to eat anything?" the king asked. "We could send to the kitchen for something."

"No, I'm all right," Rafe said. "We won't be here long, correct?"

"We're not sure," the queen answered. "It could be a while."

Rafe said nothing but gave a small backward glance at the door. Ivan was just about to ask what, exactly, this meeting was about when it swung open again, this time as Madeleine entered, carrying a large picnic basket. Her eyes met his first, giving a slight smile before she looked at the queen.

"I'm sorry it took me a while, your majesty. But I stopped at the kitchens on my way here, so we're all ready to go."

"Oh, thank you, Madeleine," his mother said. "That's so thoughtful of you. And don't worry about the timing at all. Sir Thornton has only just arrived as well."

Madeleine and Rafe looked at each other then, and Ivan almost felt that he detected something odd between their glance. If it wasn't Madeleine, he'd just think that Rafe had a bit of flirting with the maid, but it was Madeleine, and it wasn't that sort of a glance anyway. It was just… odd.

"Well, we might as well be off then," his father was the one to speak now, rising from his chair with a strange smile. Something in his eyes looked… mischievous. It was a look Ivan hadn't seen from his father in a long time.

"What are we doing?" he asked at last, glancing from his father to his mother, then to Madeleine and Rafe. They all shared the same secret smile, like they all knew something he didn't.

His mother glanced at his father, rising from her seat and moving toward him. "Well, Ivan, perhaps you've forgotten, but… it's your birthday! And we're going on a picnic to celebrate. We cleared the whole day for you. No meetings, no worrying, just celebrating and relaxing."

He blinked a few times and pursed his lips together. His parents were both smiling at him, but he couldn't quite bring himself to smile back. Celebrating. His birthday. His and Thaddeus's birthday, they should have said. "I… I knew it was my birthday," he said at last. "I just – I figured that… with Thaddeus, we wouldn't be…" He trailed off as the smile faltered from his mother's face and his father's eyes turned toward the ground.

"Yes, well," his mother spoke at last, forcing her lips back into a smile, though her eyes looked glossy with unshed tears. "We don't want your birthday to always be half a funeral now, do we?" She glanced at his father as she spoke, and the king stepped forward and clasped Ivan's shoulder. His grip was strong from years of battles.

"You and your brother were born on the same day, and we mourn him now that he's not with us. But you're still here, and we're still going to celebrate your life. You can't let one death overshadow all the gifts you still have in this life."

It was hard to look into his father's eyes knowing that he was the one who stamped out Thaddeus's life, the one who'd given them something to mourn in the first place. His throat felt tight as he forced his eyes to meet his father's. His father was blinking back tears now too, but he kept looking into Ivan's eyes with a smile. Ivan could feel the sincerity he knew his father was trying to get across to him, that he meant every word he said, and Ivan couldn't take it.

He started shaking, the uncontrollable way that always happened when he thought of what he'd done and felt the full scope of it – all of his guilt laid out in front of him, and he just wondered why they couldn't see it in the tremors that started at his hands and worked their way upward. He was forced to break his gaze with his father, and didn't everything about his body language just scream murderer?

His mother came and put her hand on his other shoulder then. Her touch was lighter, soothing, and with both of them there on either side, he remembered that he couldn't just sit there shaking like this. They believed in him too much. He had a part to play:

The crown prince come back from war; he was a survivor, and he'd have to be more than that. Competent and confident, he had to be his father's son.

But Thaddeus was always better at that – better at talking, more lively, certainly more fun to take on a birthday picnic. He'd always felt stuck in his own head somehow, while Thaddeus was free to actually live out his own life. Now he'd have to take on Thaddeus's persona as his own, for his parents' sake.

He cleared his throat and stood up, nodding at his father and mother in turn and giving the best smile he could muster. "Well, let's go then."

Rafe and Madeleine were politely looking at the floor, but he knew the moment had to have been getting awkward for both of them. He still wasn't certain why Madeleine was here, actually. He looked at her until she met his eyes, then dipped into a standard maid's curtsey. "Happy birthday, your highness," she said quietly.

"Madeleine is going to lead us to a nice spot for the picnic," his mother said, stepping forward. "We figured she knows the area better than any of us. And we'd like to avoid being seen, if at all possible. We just don't want interruptions."

Madeleine nodded. "I can do that."

"And of course, we thought you'd like to have at least one friend with you, so we invited Rafe along."

Rafe stepped forward then, flashing a wide smile. "Happy birthday, Ivan," he said, extending a hand to shake, which Ivan took. "I hope it's a good one."

"Thank you," Ivan said, first to Rafe, then turning to Madeleine. "Thank you," he repeated. He couldn't help thinking that it was a rather odd group of people to have together on a picnic.

"Let's be off, then," the king said, stepping toward door. Rafe waved for Ivan to go next, with his mother following, then Rafe, and Madeleine walking behind.

They were a silent group as they made their way through the hallways leading to the big castle doors. His father waved at the soldiers to put down the drawbridge and they crossed it all together, then paused, everyone turning back to look at Madeleine.

"Lead the way," his father said, smiling at her.

She pursed her lips together a moment before stepping to the front of the group. He couldn't help thinking that she seemed strangely subdued today. He supposed it was intimidating for her to be with the king and queen of her country. Still, he was used to seeing her… louder, throwing her opinions around without hesitation.

They followed her down the road a short way and then as she veered off of into a grassy field and eventually into a patch of forest. There wasn't much of a trail, but she stepped easily around nettles, over fallen logs and ducking under low branches.

"Oh, it's quite… wild here," his mother said as the hem of her dress caught on some thorns. His father stepped back to help her. "I hope we won't have to walk through too much wilderness to get where we're going," she said.

Madeleine glanced backwards at them. "It's not much farther, your majesty," she said.

It wasn't long before they came out of the forest, into the sunlight. They stood on a gently sloping hill that led down to the river bank. Tall grass spread across the hill with bunches of purple flowers in dots among the green. The river had scooped out a small bay here, with a willow tree draping over the water, its branches just brushing the lily pads growing beneath it. The sunlight sparkled on the blue water like diamonds.

"It's beautiful, Madeleine," his mother said, turning to her with a smile. "Thank you."

Madeleine just shrugged. "The grass might still be a bit wet from the dew."

"I think… I've been here before," Ivan said then, looking around him with sudden recognition. "Maybe not… exactly here, but I know at least once Thaddeus and I came down to the river to try and catch frogs. They'd be sitting on the lily pads, and we'd have to be fast to catch them. Thaddeus was always faster. It's not the same without him."

There was a long silence then and he only heard the wind blowing through the long grass, rustling the flowers together. It was the wrong thing to say, bringing up Thaddeus, but… he couldn't help it. He'd woken up early this morning, unable to sleep, and looked at those birthday cards cut out in star shapes that were left with all the things Madeleine had given him out of his and Thaddeus's desks.

Then he couldn't help himself from turning over in his hands every single object left from his childhood days. He couldn't get his brother out of his head. Their birthday used to be such a grand event. They'd spend all day playing in the courtyard, and then sometime in the afternoon they'd be pulled from their games to take baths and dress in their fancier, cleaner clothes. Then there'd be a feast with all their favorite foods and mountains of presents. They always gave each other presents as well – crude, hand-made things, but they meant something.

Even in the army, their birthday was always special, somehow. Even if it was just the rest of their battalion singing to them around the campfire. They'd usually stayed up late talking afterward. Last year, they stayed up all night, talking and watching the stars make their path across the sky. Then they watched the sunrise together, creeping over the horizon, wondering where the night had gone.

Thaddeus was his best, best friend – the best brother in the entire world. Today, more than anything, he just wanted him back. But Thaddeus tried to kill him, and he was the one who succeeded. Now he had to celebrate their birthday alone. It just wasn't the same. It couldn't ever be the same, and that was the worst part. Things could never go back to how they were.

Rafe was the one to break the silence at last. "Well, let's see what's in this picnic basket," he said, walking over to Madeleine and taking the basket from her. "I'm starving."

His mother gave a laugh. "Our lunches are in there, Rafe. And it's still mid morning."

Rafe shrugged. "We'll make it a brunch then. We can at least spread out this blanket."

And just like that, his parents and Rafe were working together, spreading the white sheet out to sit on, unpacking the food. Rafe hardly knew his parents, but he could talk to them easily, making jokes and small talk like it was nothing.

He stood apart from them a little, watching. He turned when he heard footsteps next to him. Madeleine.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" she asked.

He let out his breath in a half laugh, half sigh. "Are you?"

The corner of her mouth twitched. "It's not my birthday. I don't have to enjoy it." She was silent a moment before going on. "I'm not having a bad time, though," she said pointedly.

He bit his lip as his mother laughed at something else Rafe had to say. He should have joined them already. "I don't know what to say to them," he said then, turning to look at Madeleine, hoping she'd have some piece of advice to give him.

She frowned a little. "They're your parents."

"That doesn't mean I know how to talk to them."

She laughed a little as she looked away. "Fair enough," she said. "But at least they're trying. They planned this out for you. And I'm sure it's not easy for them either."

"Ivan, come on and join us!" his mother said loudly, waving him over. They were all seated together on the sheet in the grass now, towards the bottom of the hill.

He glanced at Madeleine. She nodded at him, and he walked down the hill, sitting next to Rafe who flashed another easy grin. "Come on, it's your birthday. Start enjoying it."

"Madeleine, there's enough food for you too, if you want to join us," his mother said, calling to her.

Madeleine smiled, but shook her head. "I'm not hungry. I think I'll just go for a walk down the bank. I'll be back later in the afternoon, before you want to leave."

"All right, have a nice time, dear," his mother said, waving at her. Then she looked back at Ivan with a smile. "Well, Ivan, what was your favorite birthday memory from the past?"

He blinked. He didn't know what to say. Any birthday memory he had was a memory with Thaddeus, and he didn't want to make everyone miserable again.

His mother went on before he answered. "I remember when I was young, I'd always get to go out and make snow angels on my birthday. It was my favorite day of the year. Normally I'd be busy with lessons, but on my birthday I could go and play outside, and we always had piles of snow by then."

"Hunting was always my favorite," his father said then, smiling. "Growing up, I'd always get to go on a hunt on my birthday. Mostly it was just the excitement of riding fast with all the dogs barking and running about. But one year, I remember I actually shot the deer! It was a big one, too, with huge antlers. That was the best year."

His parents both looked at him then. He needed to come up with something. He could talk about Thaddeus without it being sad. People did that. If he was really going to look like the strong, confident crown prince he wanted to look like, he needed to be able to talk about his brother, occasionally. He should say something lighthearted, something funny. He just needed to fake it.

He put a smile on his face and forced a laugh. "Well, I don't know if I have a favorite memory, but… I'll always remember the year we were stationed in some village, and all these girls made a cake for Thaddeus but not for me, so then Thaddeus had the idea that we would switch places, and try to make them think I was him."

Rafe was smirking. "I remember that year. I was there. You almost fooled them too! You two didn't even look that much alike, but I guess the girls couldn't tell. You were a good actor, Ivan. Until the one started talking about something Thaddeus had said to her, and you were just lost."

His parents were both laughing. "I don't think I ever heard this whole story," his mother said. "Start at the beginning."

Ivan smiled and tried to think where to start. His mind was racing to try and keep talking and smiling, looking at ease here. He just needed to act like Thaddeus, like he had that year, and forget that he was the reason Thaddeus wasn't here, he was the reason he couldn't wish his brother happy birthday and stay up talking all night. He needed to just forget.

* * *

In the afternoon, Rafe caught a frog, and gave it to Ivan with an outstretched hand. "Happy birthday," he said, grinning. "Just like the old days, eh?"

Ivan took the green, slimy creature and looked at it for a moment, then shook his head, letting it go on a lily pad near shore. They stood at the water's edge, looking into it. Little fish swam by occasionally, speeding through the clear water.

His parents were a short distance off. His mother was holding her skirt in her hands, wading into the water. He heard her shriek as the cold water rose past her ankles. "It's cold!"

His father was behind her, laughing. "It's not that bad, Sidonie."

"You're hardly in it!" she argued, grabbing his hands and pulling him out as far as she was. He stumbled as she pulled him, the water splashing up over his knees. His mother giggled as his father shook his head at her. They seemed to be enjoying themselves.

"I know this might not be the best time to bring it up," Rafe spoke suddenly beside him, then paused.

Ivan turned his head to look at the man, frowning. He sounded oddly serious, and Rafe was never serious. It couldn't be a good sign. He tensed as he thought of that day on the wall walk, when Rafe asked about Thaddeus's death. Did he know something? "What?" he asked, feeling his heartbeat raise.

Rafe's eyebrows lowered as he looked away into the river. "I was just… thinking. Do you ever wonder what could've happened if the war ended differently?"

Ivan frowned but managed to take a breath. It wasn't about Thaddeus, then. That was good. "What, you mean if we lost?"

"No," Rafe said. "I mean… if we really won. We signed a peace treaty and kept our land, but… what if we'd done more than that?"

"Like what?" Ivan asked. He wasn't sure where this was coming from, and he wasn't sure he cared. The war was over. It didn't need to be revisited. It was scarring enough for everyone.

"What if we'd taken over Aschare? I know it started out with them invading us, but we were strong enough in the end. If we'd just held out a little longer, you could be controlling a country twice this size."

Ivan gave a short laugh. "I'm having enough trouble with one country. Two might be a nightmare."

Rafe gave half a smile. "You're doing fine. But think how much bigger and stronger Wyndl would be. And you wouldn't have to sort out all those trading problems we're having, because we'd already have their resources. Everything would be inside the country."

"I suppose," Ivan said. "But there'd be a lot of other work. Reorganizing everything, breaking them up into territories for lords we trust to govern. And you know they'd hate us. There'd be revolts rising up everywhere."

"Not necessarily," Rafe said. "Say… if their king was dead. They'd just be looking for a strong leader. And you'd create unity. Bringing our countries together. Putting the past behind us, moving forward. Stronger together – all that sort of thing. Think how respected you'd be if you managed that. You'd be a hero."

Ivan shrugged. He supposed it did make a nice picture, but it sounded unlikely. Wyndl had enough trouble being united on its own. Bringing in another country would never go smoothly. "Well, there's not much point wondering about it now. The war's over. What's done is done."

Rafe said nothing for a moment. Then, quietly, he said, "Not necessarily."

Ivan glanced at him. "What do you mean?"

Rafe shrugged his shoulders. He kept his eyes on the river, and his face had an oddly red tone, as if he was embarrassed to be saying this. "I just mean… you never know what'll happen to that Ascharan king."

"Rafe," Ivan said, serious now. He couldn't believe Rafe would suggest anything like this. Rafe hated politics, last he knew. "You don't mean…. assassination? We signed a peace treaty. That means we're making peace."

"I know," Rafe said, swinging his hands up as he shrugged. "I'm just saying…"

"Saying what?" Ivan asked.

Rafe sighed. "I'm just saying that… I know you and your father have been having some trouble getting the country to cooperate. Maybe the people aren't all that pleased with you right now. I'm just saying that there are ways to impress them."

"I don't think leading them back into war would impress them."

"It wouldn't be war. It'd just be… conquering. You'd be the conquering hero, who brought two countries together, against all odds. Doesn't that sound impressive to you?"

Ivan opened his mouth to answer but heard his mother call out, "Madeleine, hello!" before he said anything. He glanced in that direction and saw Madeleine waving as she walked towards them along the bank. She stopped when she was still some distance away, crossing her arms as she looked out at the river.

"She looks unhappy, doesn't she?" Ivan said after a moment.

He felt Rafe look at him. "That was a complete change in subject. But personally, I don't think I've ever seen Madeleine look happy. She has about three moods, I think. Angry, bitter, and slightly less angry and bitter."

Ivan glanced at him. "Do you know her well?"

"Well, I've seen her fairly often when I was visiting Lady Blair."

Ivan shifted on his feet then, remembering something he'd been meaning to ask Rafe. "About Lady Blair, I know you mentioned her once before, but… when she came to tea she didn't seem very – well, you and her weren't really… What I mean is…" Ivan trailed off unsuccessfully. There was no easy way of putting this.

"If you're asking if we're attached, the answer is no," Rafe said in a dull, flat voice. "If you want to chase after her, feel free. And good luck to you."

"Oh." Ivan said. The man certainly didn't sound very happy about it. "Well, if you want, I can just – "

"Blair doesn't want me," Rafe cut in. His voice was slightly raised now. He sounded irritated, angry maybe. "If you want to pursue her, go ahead. It would be ungentlemanly of me to stop you."

Ivan wondered when being ungentlemanly had ever concerned Rafe, but he just nodded. He wasn't sure that he would pursue Lady Blair; he didn't really want to think about it at all. But with his mother constantly questioning him about the ladies he had tea with, he figured it would be best to at least have some sort of preference to report.

"I think I'll go talk to Madeleine for a moment," he said then, glancing at Rafe's stony face.

"Go ahead." Rafe waved him away.

He walked past his parents still standing in the river and stopped as he reached her. "Hello, Madeleine," he said in greeting.

"Hello, Ivan," she answered without looking at him. "Are you enjoying your birthday now any more than you were earlier?"

"A bit, yes," he said. "It's better than meetings all day, in any case."

She nodded and said nothing.

"How did you know about this place?" he asked after a moment, glancing around at the hill, all the flowers, and the tiny bay. "Do you come here often?"

She moved her eyes slowly to look at him. "I used to," she said. "The bank's wide enough, so… it was one of my favorite places to practice. It's even better at night, with the moon out shining on the water."

"Practice what?" he asked, frowning.

Her eyes had moved back to the water but she glanced at him now. "Fire dancing. I was a fire dancer."

"Oh," he said, blinking. "I didn't know that."

She smirked at him. "Obviously. Or I wouldn't have told you again. Have you ever seen them – the fire dancers?"

He nodded. "Just once or twice. I never really got to watch, but… I remember seeing them at festivals in some of the towns the army was passing through. I never got to stop and watch but what I remember was… incredible. I could never understand how anyone was brave enough to leap over flames like that."

Madeleine smiled out at the water. He watched the way the late afternoon sun lit up her face and all her freckles, turned her hair redder than ever.

"What happened?" he asked at last. "Why aren't you a fire dancer now?"

She looked at him and gave a small smile. "It's too sad. I won't tell you. We spend too much time talking about sad things already. You and your… poor adjustment to court life. Me and… my family, among other things. I won't add this to the list."

He said nothing but he looked at her scars for a moment as she watched the glistening water. He felt he could guess, more or less, what happened. And it was sad. The world seemed like a dark, bleak place sometimes. "What can we talk about," he said finally, "that's not sad?"

Madeleine looked at him thoughtfully, pursing her lips together. Then, after a loud laugh from his father, she smiled. "Your parents. They're lovely. Look at them still flirting like sweethearts."

He turned his head to look at them. He noted that his father was now soaked from head to toe and attempting to give his mother the same treatment. She was warding off his attacks at the moment, but it didn't look like she would last long.

"It's odd, seeing them like that," Madeleine said. "Like a real family. I've never seen two people that old look that happy."

Ivan looked back at her and gave a short laugh. She sounded slightly ridiculous. "What, you think all old people are miserable?"

Madeleine seemed to consider for a moment, then nodded, though she was smiling now too. "I guess so. I'm hardly ever that happy as it is, so I just assumed it's all downhill from here."

"Let's hope not," Ivan said, as his mother was finally dunked under water and came up dripping.

Madeleine smiled. "Have you ever drank out of the river?" she asked him.

He shook his head.

"Then come on," she said, beckoning him toward the water. "It's clean enough, and it tastes like… winter. The freshest winter in the world."

He rose one eyebrow at her. "Winter isn't a taste, Madeleine. It's a season, in case you weren't aware."

"Oh, shush," she said, as she crouched by the water's edge, cupping her hands together and dipping them in. He followed her lead, a little shocked at just how cold it felt on his fingers.

"Here's to being happy," Madeleine said, bringing her cupped hands out of the water and towards his own. He brought his handful of water towards hers as well, brushing against her fingers, and then they both brought their hands to their mouths, drinking the fresh water. As the cold spread down his throat, he thought that right now, he felt happy.


	15. Chapter 15

Rafe stopped in front of the steps leading to the door of the Luck house and stood there, looking at the outlines of the house. In the dark, he could just make out the slanted roof and the right-angled edges of the door frame. It was a different house than the one he knew in the day time. It had never seemed like a pleasant place to him, but in the daylight it still seemed like a home. Now it was just hard, uninviting lines in the night.

He glanced over his shoulder once, unable to shake the feeling that someone was following him – he'd had the feeling ever since he found the blue rose in his room at the castle, marking the meeting place. At first he wanted to believe the flower choice was just coincidence. He even asked Madeleine about it. She just said that roses were in season now and people were dyeing them all colors. She'd been given a list of color preferences and arranged the flowers based on that; did he have a problem with it?

Of course then he spilled about the code – not the details of it, just that her father used roses to inform people about meetings, which seemed to irritate more than anything else. "Of course he does," she'd said tersely as she scraped her broom across the hall with a sudden vengeance. If the floor were skin, she'd rub it raw.

Now here he was, in the dark, still hesitating. He didn't want to go in. He didn't want any part in this. But he'd made his choice.

If felt like he was losing Blair a little more every day. A few days ago, he'd gone to a meeting at the castle about Gathering Day – some spring festival where the royal family apparently went out to mingle with their people. It hadn't happened for sixteen years, but now that the war was over, they thought why not? And, in the queen's words, to "give an appearance of solidarity" they wanted Ivan to appear with one of the young ladies of court – someone fairly nearby they thought would be best, and since Blair was really the only lady he'd made a favorable impression on anyway, the invitation went to her.

Lord Luck could stop it. Lord Luck was the only one who could stop it.

He stepped up to the door and turned the handle, pushing it open slowly and trying not to make a sound. Imagine if he woke her, and she came down those stairs – what could he say to her? Nothing. There would be absolutely nothing he could say for himself at that moment, so he'd have to be quiet.

He shut the door behind him, wincing even at the soft thump it made against the frame, then started down the hallway, walking blind. It was darker here inside without the stars or moon to guide him, and even the air seemed denser.

At the parlor door, he stopped, feeling the break in the wall. But it was dark there too. He heard voices, then spotted a dim light shining out from a room farther down. He started to walk faster, able to make out shapes once again – the walls on either side of him, and the open doorway to his right. The floorboards creaked as he entered the room – the kitchen, with a large table in the center and pots and pans hung up on the walls, casting strange shadows around the room.

A dozen men sat around the table, faces barely illuminated by the candles in the center. Lord Luck sat at the head of the table, nearest the door. His back was straight in his chair, but there were shadows beneath his eyes and dark stubble on his normally clean shaven chin. Farther down the table were all the lords that he and Ivan found in the forest that night, along with some others he had no idea were working with Lord Luck.

The presence of one man in particular surprised him – General Fenn, one of the most famous men in the Wyndlan army. He was one of the youngest men to ever make general, and Rafe had fought under his leadership in numerous battles, along with both Ivan and Thaddeus. As he stood there, the general's eyes lifted and met his, shining in the candlelight. He looked away quickly.

"Rafe," Lord Luck greeted him finally as the rest of the men grew quiet. "We were beginning to wonder if you were coming."

"I wasn't sure where to go once I got here," he said, quickly slipping into the only empty seat, towards the far end of the table.

"You could have come through the back door. I hope you didn't wake my family," Lord Luck said.

"I tried not to," he said, glancing at the rest of the men. None of them had spoken since he entered the room. The majority of them were staring at nothing in particular, eyes drifting in space. None of them looked like they wanted to be here. "Well, what's this meeting all about then?" he asked, tapping his fingers on the table. "I hope it's a short one. I'd like to go back to bed." He didn't even try to keep back his smirk, no longer intimidated by these spiritless men.

A few seats away, Lord Lisley turned to him with narrowed eyes. "Well, then it must be convenient for you to have such a short ride back to the castle when this is over. I traveled the entire day for this – and made it on time, I might add." Rafe raised his eyebrows as the man straightened in his seat, his stature seeming to grow with the tone of his voice. Then he slumped back down, crossing his arms over his chest. "Though I don't know why I bothered. I told you, Luck, that I think we should have dropped this. Thaddeus is dead. And Thornton's son is hardly a candidate for the throne."

"He's not a candidate for the throne," Lord Arem said from Lord Lisley's other side, before Lord Luck could reply. He talked slowly, stressing each syllable as if speaking to a child. "We already went through this. Let's just get on with the meeting."

"What exactly did you go through already?" Rafe asked, glancing from Lord Arem to Lord Luck. He wanted to know just where he stood in this group.

"Just that you joined us," Lord Luck said, before anyone else could jump in. "You're a valuable asset to our cause, given your relationship with Prince Ivan, and you were willing to offer your services, for a price."

Lord Lisley snorted. "How much of your wife's money did you pay him, Luck?"

Lord Luck's eyes flashed to Lord Lisley but he said nothing as more voices broke out down the table.

"And what about my money? When are you going to repay that?"

"You said we'd easily get twice what we put in, but so far we've seen nothing. When's it going to happen?"

Lord Luck took their complaints silently, his eyes slowly shifting to each man who spoke. Just once, when three men started talking at once, Rafe saw him look downward, staring at his hands resting on the wooden table – large, tanned hands decorated only by a gold wedding band.

After a moment, Lord Kent – the one seated closest to Lord Luck and the other lord closest to Saimes, his estate just on the other side of it – leaned over and said something to him in a quiet voice. There was a short back-and-forth exchange before Lord Luck nodded and Lord Kent spoke.

"Will you all be quiet?" Lord Kent asked, raising his voice above the men's clamor. "If any of you are in dire need of repayment, which I highly doubt is the case, I'll give it to you out of my own pocket. Otherwise, you'll still get what you were promised if you just have a little patience. We have a plan."

The table quieted at this. Rafe leaned back in his seat, curious. Last he knew, the plan was shaky at best, and he certainly hadn't made any progress on Ivan.

Lord Luck took in a deep breath and glanced around the table. "Thank you, Lord Kent. Now, I know this is the first time we're all meeting since Thaddeus's death, and I know that some of you think we should give up. For a time, I, too, was disheartened. I didn't see any way of continuing the plan. But now I do."

He gave a half smile as he paused, and Rafe tried not to sigh too heavily. He was using his self-important tone – like he had all the answers and was just dying to explain himself to the rest of the world. Rafe didn't want to hear it.

"I've realized that the movement of a country does not depend on one man alone. Thaddeus's death is not the end of progress. We are stronger than that. The people of Wyndl will get what they want, regardless of what the royal family has to say about it. Did any of you realize that near the border, our villages were attacked after the war was already over? Lady Olivia, daughter of Lord Holbrook, came here to have tea with Prince Ivan without him ever realizing she was living out of a barn. It wasn't until he made a few uncouth remarks that she was made uncomfortable enough to reveal her position. Her house had been burnt down and her cousin murdered by Ascharans. It is irresponsible of the royal family to act as if the Ascharans are some benevolent neighbors. They may have sent help afterward, but that hardly matters. Do you think Lord Holbrook wants peace with the Ascharans? I doubt it."

Rafe blinked a few times. He remembered Lady Olivia. It had been an odd tea, admittedly – Ivan disappeared halfway into it, and he was left entertaining two ladies on his own. Not that he minded, but even he had never heard this whole story. It made him wonder where Lord Luck was getting this information. Madeleine? Had Ivan actually told her all of that?

Lord Luck was looking around the table, gauging the reactions of the men. Some of them were whispering to each other but no one seemed too impressed yet. Lord Luck kept going. "Now, the royal family has recently passed this new mandate on trade, stating that we will send our products to these people who slaughtered our own villages – our own prince even," Lord Luck gave a short laugh, "according to legend. Lord Graven has brought word to us that this mandate has not been well received by the people in the north, and I believe many of you have similar reports from your own areas. Our people do not want peace."

Lord Luck paused again, and Lord Lisley spoke in a dry tone, "Yes, but what of it? This is a monarchy. The people don't have any power."

"The people always have power," Lord Luck snapped back. "Wyndl is nothing if not its people. Why do you think we were placed in a position of authority if not to help them? We have a responsibility." He sounded more emphatic than he had for the entirety of his speech, and Rafe just stared at him. Lord Luck really seemed to believe all this – that murdering a prince, persuading a country back into war was all for the greater good, and Rafe couldn't comprehend it. When had the man convinced himself that political anarchy was the greatest thing he could do with his life?

"A responsibility to do what?" one of the men asked down the table.

Lord Luck looked at the man who'd spoken and smiled. "Riots."

There was a long silence.

"Riots?" Rafe asked at last, leaning forward against the table. If no one else was going to ask, he would.

Lord Luck glanced at him. "Yes. At the upcoming Gathering Day. The royal family will be out in Saimes, visiting with people who will have come in from all parts of the country. The king gives a speech just before a banquet in the middle of the day, and it's the perfect time for them to be told what their people really think. I've already recruited a number of men to start a riot. The rest of the crowd will be easily swayed once they see enough people acting out. I expect all of you to be in attendance – carefully, of course. We will not allow ourselves to be seen by anyone loyal to the royal family. But we'll be there to move the crowd in the right direction."

"Riots can only do so much, though," Lord Graven said after a moment. "Will it be useful, in the long run? King Nicholas is adamant about fostering peace."

"Riots are the first step," Lord Luck answered. "And even if King Nicholas is not moved, he's not our only target. I've had people watching Prince Ivan, and I think more than anything else, he does not want to be a disappointment. The more he sees how unhappy his people are with him, the more he'll want to change that."

Rafe swallowed as he crossed his arms in his seat. He had to admit he was impressed. Riots weren't an immediate solution, but they were a step – a useful step. He and Madeleine were doing their jobs too well. He'd tried not to give Lord Luck any consequential information in the few weeks he'd been working for him, and he knew Madeleine did the same, but the man obviously still had too clear a character sketch of Ivan.

The men around the table were murmuring their agreement with the plan now.

"It's a good start," General Fenn, the battle strategist, said. "Most of the army will be there to protect the royal family should need arise, but I can get some of those loyal to me to join the riots instead."

Lord Luck nodded. He looked less tired now, energized by his new plan. "Good. Do what you can. But they should break out as naturally as possible. This is what the people already want. We're just showing them they have the power to do something about it."

Rafe looked down at his hands as the men went on talking. He supposed this wasn't the worst thing they could have come up with. His involvement would be minimal. If the riots happened to reinforce the things he'd been saying to Ivan lately, well… it would just look like coincidence. If it was what the people wanted, maybe it was a good thing.

"Will anyone be hurt?" he asked, raising his voice above the rest of them.

Lord Luck glanced at him and shrugged his shoulders slightly. "What will happen will happen, but it's not our intent to hurt anyone, no."

He squared his jaw and nodded, wondering if that's what Lord Luck told Thaddeus back when he was convincing the younger prince to join his plans. Well, it didn't matter. He'd make sure nothing happened to Blair. That was all he really cared about.

* * *

Blair held onto Prince Ivan's arm as they walked through the streets of the village. She was in the best mood she'd been in for a long time. The sun felt warm on her face, her blue dress that she'd mended herself didn't look all that shabby, and most of all, she was with the prince.

"Would you like some flowers?" he asked, stopping in front of a stand with wheelbarrows and pots full of flowers in every color – white and yellow daisies, roses and carnations dyed orange and blue and purple, white flowers with tips dipped in fuchsia.

"I would love some flowers, your highness," she said, smiling at him.

His eyes stayed on her face for a moment, then he nodded and turned back to the stand. "Well – what kind do you want?" he asked, surveying the colorful array.

She shrugged her shoulders. "You pick," she said, squeezing his arm.

She thought she detected a momentary flicker of panic on his face, but he simply said, "All right," and stepped up to the stand. She let go of his arm for the moment and stayed a few steps behind, watching. His head turned as he looked the flowers over multiple times. The woman tending them stepped forward, waiting for him to speak, but he just kept looking.

Blair gave a short sigh and glanced around at the people milling through the streets. She'd never seen Saimes so busy. She hadn't even known what Gathering Day was when she got the invitation to spend it with Prince Ivan, but her mother said it was an old tradition where the royal family met with their people, who came from all over to show their best products. Of course, she didn't really care what it was. She had an invitation from the prince. She wasn't going to turn it down.

A short way down the street, the king and queen were admiring a bunch of white lambs as they talked to the barefoot children tending them. Across the street, she spotted her mother standing with Lord Luck and Adelle. None of them looked particularly happy. Lord Luck seemed distracted, eyes moving up and down the streets. Her mother was watching him, her lips pursed in a thin line. That seemed to be her typical expression these days. Only Adelle looked like she was actually interested in the festival around them, talking to a cloth merchant as she fingered some red silk. Not that they could afford it. Lord Luck never said where the money was going, but every meal seemed to grow sparser, and they certainly couldn't spend on new clothes. Yesterday she'd heard Lane and Sara whispering about looking for new work, their wages were so bad. If that happened… well, she'd marry Prince Ivan before it got to that. She had to marry him, if only to get out of that house. She couldn't take it anymore.

Adelle happened to turn around then, and their eyes met. Adelle's face split into a wide smile and her white handkerchief fluttered in the air as she gave an enthusiastic wave.

Blair lifted her hand in a smaller greeting, shaking her head to herself. No doubt Adelle was coping better than she would have been. If she hadn't been asked to attend the festival with Prince Ivan, she wouldn't have wanted to come at all. Spending time with her mother and Lord Luck together was something she tried to avoid at all costs.

Adelle started making pointing motions then, her smile growing even bigger as her eyes widened.

Blair frowned at her, then felt a tap on her arm. She turned to find Ivan holding a bouquet of blue roses and some of the white carnations with pink edges. "I wasn't sure what to get, but… the blue ones match your dress. And I thought the others looked nice. I hope you like them."

She laughed. He looked so serious – pursing his lips together with his jaw twitching. "Yes, I like them," she said, taking them out of his hands. "Thank you."

He nodded and let out his breath in what she supposed was intended to be a quiet exhale, but she heard it quite audibly. He offered her his arm again, and she took it, glancing up at him as they started walking.

"You don't seem very relaxed, your highness," she said after a moment, noting the beads of sweat on his forehead. He wiped at it with the back of his other hand, glancing down at her.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I just… I'm not used to being in public, like this."

"And with women?" she asked, blinking at him and then sweeping her gaze downward, letting just a hint of a smile linger on her lips. She felt his eyes on her and a rush of adrenaline traveled through her veins. She was winning him over. She was sure of it. It might take time, but he'd marry her and take her away from Lord Luck and her mother, and maybe she'd be happy finally – for the first time in years.

"That too, I suppose," he said after a moment. "It's just – my father's giving a speech later, and he wants me to say something too. I've thought about it for hours, but I can't come up with anything. He said it could be short and… spontaneous, but… I can't do that."

Blair took in a breath as they kept walking. That wasn't exactly what she wanted to hear about, but he was a prince, and he had his duties. Certainly they weren't easy, and he deserved the chance to tell someone about it. "What are you supposed to talk about?" she asked after a moment.

He shook his head, keeping his eyes straight ahead. "Anything. Wyndl. How well we're doing, but we're not even doing well. Everyone hates the new trade mandate, and…" He trailed off and turned his head to look at her, then shook his head again more emphatically. "I'm sorry. I'm boring you, I'm sure. Are you… well, how are you? How are… things – at your house?" Before he even finished talking, he was looking ahead again, wiping his forehead, gnawing on his lip.

"Fine," she answered shortly. "We're all fine." They weren't. They all needed new clothes but couldn't afford them. She was beginning to worry about their only servants leaving them and then maybe starving to death once they were gone. Lord Luck completely ignored all of them, and if anyone tried to talk to him, he'd throw a fit. But it was fine. She wasn't going to tell all that to Prince Ivan. He wasn't listening, and it didn't matter. All he had to do was fall in love with her, and it would solve everything. If she was a princess, she'd have more than enough money to provide for her mother and Adelle. As for Lord Luck, he could provide for himself. "I'm sure your speech will be all right," she said then, looking up at him. He needed someone to support him, not throw all her own problems on him. "People love you."

But he wasn't paying attention. His eyes had fixed on some other stand on the street, which he started walking towards with a fast stride, leaving her to either drop his arm or adjust her pace to match his, so she lifted her skirt along with her bouquet to walk faster. They stopped in front of a table arranged with a myriad of masquerade masks at least as colorful as the flower stand before. There were masks with sparkling jewels, bird feathers, intricate gold designs. Masks that shimmered like diamonds, masks blooming with paper flowers, masks of fine velvet. Behind the table was a gray bearded man talking to a younger woman with messy auburn hair. When they turned to face them, Blair felt her whole body stiffen. Madeleine. She clutched Ivan's arm tighter as both Madeleine and the older man rose to their feet, then lowered into a bow and curtsey.

"Your highness, what can I do for you?" the man asked. "Are you interested in masks? These are just a few of mine. I have more. I can make more. I can make anything you want."

Blair watched Madeleine as the old man went on talking and found her stepsister looking back at her. Her eyes moved from Blair's face to her hand holding the prince's arm and then the flowers in her other hand. Blair lifted the bouquet to her nose, breathing in the sweet scent. Madeleine's expression didn't change, but the pink scars on her face looked redder than usual.

"Madeleine," the prince spoke then, breaking through the older man's rambling. "Is this… your friend, that you were telling me about? Who makes the masquerade masks?"

Blair looked from Ivan to Madeleine and tried to stop herself from frowning. Madeleine shouldn't have been telling Ivan anything except that she had swept the halls properly. She was a maid at the castle. That was all.

Madeleine hesitated a moment, her eyes still on Blair. Finally she looked at Ivan and smiled. "Yes, your highness. This is Myron." She glanced at the old man, letting him step forward

Myron bowed again. "Your highness, it's an honor," he said. He glanced at Blair and gave another smaller bow to her. "My lady."

Ivan seemed to remember her then, glancing at her and then at Madeleine. "Madeleine, you… um, Blair and I are touring the festival together."

Blair smiled as Madeleine stared at them both. "I see that," she said at last. "Hello, Blair."

"Hello, Madeleine," Blair replied, nodding. She was comfortable again now. She was a lady of the court, spending the day with the crown prince. Madeleine was only a maid. She had to see that she had no chance. "I hope you're doing well at the castle," she said after a moment.

"I am," Madeleine said. "I enjoy it there. The royal family is so kind to me." She smiled, and Blair felt her own smile vanishing. She was just a maid, she told herself again. "How is… home, now that Lord Luck has returned?" Madeleine asked.

Blair blinked at hearing Madeleine call him Lord Luck. Prince Ivan knew they were stepsisters – keeping up a pretense felt like such a game, and she wanted to drop it – all of it, maybe, and tell Madeleine how strange her father acted. Maybe together they could get to the bottom of it. Hatred of Lord Luck was the one thing they seemed to have in common. Still, this wasn't the time or place. "Your father," she said slowly, "is… a dynamic presence in our house."

Madeleine gave half a smile. "He always is."

They looked at each other a moment more, in understanding, before Ivan spoke. "You're spending your day off here at the festival?"

Madeleine nodded. "I am."

"Will you listen to my speech later, then? Soon, actually – just before the banquet. It won't be much of a speech – it'll probably be an utter disaster, but still, I…"

"I'll be there," Madeleine said. She smiled at Ivan, and he looked back at her for so long Blair felt her face flushing in anger. Madeleine didn't have a chance with him, so why was she doing this – fostering this friendship that could never go anywhere? It wasn't fair. Not to Ivan, not to anyone else. "Enjoy the rest of the festival, your highness," Madeleine said then. She stepped back from the table, moving off to the side where others were stepping up to look at the masks.

Blair turned to Ivan. He was still watching Madeleine. She pretended not to notice as she gave his arm a gentle tug. "Shall we move on?" she asked, looking up at him. Madeleine had the grace to step away, at least. Ivan ought to do the same.

He glanced at her and nodded. "Of course. It's nearly noon anyway. We should head to the banquet." He looked at Myron. "It was nice to meet you. You've made some beautiful masks."

"Thank you for stopping by." The man gave a small smile as he glanced at Madeleine. He'd observed the entire exchange with hardly a word. Blair wondered what he thought of it all. "I hope they can service you sometime, if you ever decide to hold a masked ball."

"I'll consider it," Ivan said, as they started away. They walked through the streets towards the center of the village, where a table was set up in the main pavilion. The banquet was traditionally served to the royal family by the villagers, from food they had prepared themselves. None of the usual servants were involved; the meal was considered an act of mutual appreciation between the people and their rulers. Since Blair was the prince's guest, she would be partaking today as well.

As they neared the center of the village, she felt more and more conspicuous – but in a good way, on the arm of the crown prince. People looked at her, but she didn't bother looking back at them. She walked with her head held high, not needing to greet anyone or even acknowledge them. All they wanted was to stare at her, wondering about her and the prince. She'd let them have their curiosity's fill. Just before they reached the pavilion, though, she found her eyes locked onto Rafe Thornton, standing at the corner of the street. She looked away as quickly as she could, and Ivan didn't notice. As they walked past, she felt a pang of… something. Almost disappointment, but she was done with him. She thought about looking over her shoulder, but she didn't need that. It was over.

The king and queen were already sitting at the table spread with a clean white cloth. Ivan pulled her chair out for her, and his parents both smiled as she sat down. Here she felt everyone's eyes on her even more than before, and as she let her eyes wander through the sea of faces, she couldn't help being drawn back to Rafe. He was still looking at her, hands on his hips in a nearly soldier stance. When she looked away and found him still watching her a moment later, she felt a blush spread up her throat.

"This is terrifying," Ivan said in a low voice next to her.

She glanced at him and smiled, welcoming the distraction. It was an intimidating crowd, she supposed, though she'd been enjoying it. "I understand why you don't want to give a speech now," she offered.

He sighed. "Don't remind me."

It wasn't long before the area became a solid mass of people as they flooded in from all parts of the village. The designated servers appeared, holding trays of breads, vegetables, fruits, and meat. Before they came to the table, King Nicholas stood up, raising his voice above the crowd. "I know it's customary for me to give a speech before the meal, and I plan to follow that tradition. But before I do, I'd like to give my son the chance to say a few words as well. Ivan?"

Ivan stood up and pushed his chair into the table, gripping the back of it. His hands were shaking. "I – um… I just wanted to say that… " Blair pursed her lips as he stuttered multiple times within the first sentence. He wasn't off to a good start. "I wanted to say as we start this new era in Wyndl – an era of peace – that I am… proud to call this land my home. And as your crown prince, I know I have specific responsibilities to you… my people. I want to do the best I can to serve you. I – "

"How about serving us by not forcing us to trade with Ascharans?" someone shouted from out in the crowd.

Blair quickly glanced up at Ivan to see how he'd respond. His face looked whiter than ever, coated in a thin sheen of sweat. "The trade mandate is… to promote peace among our countries," he said, though he certainly didn't sound very confident in it.

"Just like the Ascharan attacks on the border after the war were to promote peace?" someone else asked.

"That – uh…" Ivan's jaw twitched repeatedly as he glanced toward his parents. Blair held herself back from rolling her eyes as she looked back at the crowd. Obviously he wasn't expecting to be criticized like this, but couldn't he at least string together a full sentence on his own?

"Did your tongue get cut out in the war? Do you know anything about running the country?" someone called out then, and Blair felt her face flush in embarrassment for him – and herself. She didn't want to be sitting up here anymore. Not with everyone shouting at the prince.

"Everyone needs to calm down!" King Nicholas's voice thundered over the crowd. He was standing again now, and the queen's hand was on his arm, as if she wasn't sure whether to sit or stand. "If you have complaints, I will address them, but I will not stand to see my son so attacked – "

"Let him speak for himself!"

"He's a poor excuse for a prince! And you're a poor excuse for a king!"

Within moments the crowd turned to chaos. Blair felt her embarrassment turn to a seething anger. She was supposed to be enjoying a fine meal with the prince, not putting up with an angry crowd. She wanted flirtatious conversation, and now all she heard was the king trying to answer the crowd while Ivan stood there uselessly beside him. It was only when the crowd started moving forward, and she saw the guards moving to try and contain them that she felt her heartbeat start to speed up. The crowd's yelling had shifted from personal attacks to one main chant: "Ascharans are enemies! Ascharans are enemies!" The shift happened so fast Blair could scarcely believe. How did a few angry people become so unified so fast?

The queen stood up as some guards came to the table, ready to usher them all away, and Blair quickly got to her own feet, panicked now. A moment ago, she was enjoying being looked at by the crowd, and now she was worried they might kill her – guilt by association.

As they started to move away from the table, she felt a hand wrap around her wrist and jumped, but it was just Ivan beside her. "Don't worry," he said, "we'll be all right." He was just following the guards, but he seemed more like he ought to be now – the crown prince, conquering hero of the war. He'd been taken off guard by this crowd, but he'd get her out safe all the same. She trusted him.

"You're a spineless coward!" she heard someone shouting behind them. A few of the guards walking with them turned, and Ivan stopped walking altogether, so that she was the one pulling him forward. "You're not half the prince Thaddeus was!" When he didn't respond to her tugging, she turned to face the scuffle behind her, and a swinging fist smacked into her right temple. Her grip on Ivan went slack as the faces around her seemed to pulse. She thought she saw Rafe standing before her, then spots of light floating in front of her eyes, then nothing.


	16. Chapter 16

**GUYS I'M AAAALIIIIIIVVVVVEEEE! So, I know this story is going incredibly slow, and I'm not altogether convinced anyone is actually reading it, but if you are still reading it, or if you are reading it for the first time, rest assured, I AM DEVOTED TO THIS STORY. I WILL FINISH IT IF IT IS THE LAST THING I DO!**

**If you're reading, leave a review! Tell me who your favorite character is! Or predict something about the plot! I will personally reply to all reviews! THANK YOU.  
**

* * *

"Are you sure you're all right, though?" Adelle asked her sister, crowding close on the settee, as Lady Edith held a cold cloth to the bruises beginning to form on Blair's left cheekbone in splotches of dark purple and blue. Ivan watched Blair wince at the touch and felt his jaw twitching uncomfortably. She shouldn't have gotten hurt.

"I'm fine," Blair said, pulling away from her mother's touch. "My head hurts, but it's not horrible. I'll recover. Ivan saved me from anything worse." She stretched a pale hand toward where he stood near the window across from her. He'd escorted them back home and then stayed back. He didn't want to do any more damage today.

For a moment, he stayed where he was, trying to swallow the dry, unpleasant feeling in his throat along with the image in his mind of her lying limp on the street, responding to nothing—much too similar to Thaddeus, on the ground in that field in Aschare. Both his fault. Both could have been prevented if he just knew how to be the prince he needed to be.

Finally he stepped forward and took her hand in his. He was surprised by how small it felt, how fragile. Her life was in his hands today, and he'd put her in far too much danger. "It wasn't me, entirely. I helped you get home, but it was Rafe who made sure nothing else happened. He responded much quicker to the situation than myself."

Blair's lips pursed into a thin line and she straightened her back so she sat higher on the settee. "That may be, but you're the one who's here now. And who knows where Rafe's run off to."

"Yes, where is Rafe?" Lady Edith asked, glancing at Ivan. "I would like to thank him," she said, turning her eyes on Blair, "if he was so instrumental in saving my daughter's life as you say."

"I don't know," Ivan said, shrugging his shoulders. The riot was too chaotic to keep track of anyone. Rafe had appeared out of nowhere and started beating everyone away from Blair. He got her off the ground and handed her over to Ivan, and then he was gone again. "The last I saw of him was when he went to find you two, after we got Blair out of the crowd."

"He just stormed off after he told us what happened," Adelle said. "It looked like he was going back into the riot. He seemed quite agitated about what happened, though." She glanced at Blair, who kept her eyes on the green blanket over her legs. She seemed to have nothing to say, and the room fell silent.

Ivan kept looking at the bruises on Blair's face and at her hair—all the disheveled black wisps that had come out of place. She looked paler than she had this morning. He glanced out the window as a cloud moved over the sun, blocking the afternoon light. The room turned dim, their faces all shadowed. He closed his eyes, and in his mind, he heard the shouts of the crowd over and over. _Do you know anything about running a country? You're a spineless coward! You're not half the prince Thaddeus was!_

He opened his eyes again but kept them on the gray cloud outside the dusty window. They were right, all of them. He was no good at this. He didn't know how to run a country. He couldn't even talk to people without them all turning into an angry mob, apparently. Thaddeus had always been better at speeches. If he was here, none of this would have happened.

"I am sorry about… all of this," he said, glancing at Blair and then at Lady Edith. He'd apologized once already, but he felt like it still didn't make up for everything.

"It's not your fault," Blair said quickly. She tugged his hand a bit closer but he resisted her, staying an arm's length away.

"If you hadn't been with me, none of this would have happened," he insisted. She kept saying he hadn't done anything wrong, but he wanted her to see that he had. The whole riot—it was all his fault, and no one else's. "If my speech had been… better prepared, you never would have been hurt."

"But you couldn't have predicted the crowd would turn like that," Blair said. "You're not to blame."

He still didn't believe her, but he didn't argue this time as his hand started shaking then and he had to pull it away quick before she could notice. He glanced at Lady Edith and saw that she was watching him pull back, but when their eyes met, she gave a small smile. "Indeed. You could not have known."

Silence filled the room again, an uncomfortable sort of silence, and he wondered if he ought to leave. An army escort was waiting outside the house to make sure he got back to the castle without any more trouble. He wanted to be back there now, in the quiet of his own room, but he didn't want to walk back with these men judging him, wondering why he didn't have anything to say for himself, why he wasn't the leader Thaddeus had been. He didn't want to deal with the awkwardness of the men who had seen him so utterly unable to handle a situation that they had to step in on his behalf and beat the riot back, realizing they were far more capable than he.

He jumped as the door behind him opened, and Rafe walked in, closely followed by Lord Luck and Madeleine. Rafe went straight to Blair, coming between her and Ivan. "Blair, are you all right?" He took her hand and knelt beside her, scrutinizing the bruises on her face. He seemed to have a share of injuries himself—nothing as pronounced as Blair's bruises, but his lip was swollen and there were red scrapes along the side of his face.

Lord Luck too had bruises beginning to emerge around both his eyes and his overcoat hung askew on his frame, his normally smooth hair tousled.

Ivan quickly scanned Madeleine's face then, searching for signs of any injury she might have obtained in the crowd during the riot. He breathed a sigh of relief once he saw that the only marks on her face were the familiar scars. She was untouched by the riots. He started to take a step toward her, but her eyes were on Blair, and before he could do anything Lady Edith was up out of her seat.

"What happened?" she asked, crossing in front of Ivan to reach her husband. Her fingers went to the bruises, but Lord Luck stepped backward, shaking his head. "We got a bit caught up in the crowd, that's all. It was all push and shove in the middle of it. Rafe and I both had our share of trouble getting out, didn't we?"

Rafe glanced toward the lord. He was holding Blair's hand, which she tried to pull away once he wasn't facing her. There was a moment of silence before he answered. "Yes. We – everyone was quite… on edge. But we're both fine. How's Blair?"

"I just told you I'm perfectly fine!" Blair answered, nearly shouting. "Ivan got me home safe with the guards. He carried me inside. I didn't have to walk a step."

Rafe dropped her hand and stood up, shaking his wrist as if to rid himself of her touch. He glanced at Ivan and nodded his head. "My thanks," he said, though he didn't sound particularly grateful.

"I don't know what you're thanking him for," Blair said. "It has nothing to do with you."

Rafe glanced back at her, and Ivan looked away from the two of them. He wondered if it had been a good idea to ask Blair to the festival at all. She and Rafe still seemed to have some tension between them. Besides, Blair didn't need to be put in a situation like this ever again. He didn't want to be responsible for her being hurt—for anyone being hurt. There was enough blood on his hands as it was.

Madeleine's eyes met his across the room and as Lady Edith beckoned Lord Luck to the window for a better look at his bruises, he stepped towards her. She looked away at Blair again, forcing him to speak first in order to gain her acknowledgement. "Are you all right?" he asked softly. "You weren't hurt in the riot at all?"

She glanced up at him and then crossed her arms over her chest, looking down toward the floor. "I'm fine. I was pushed around a bit, but somehow I emerged unscathed, all by myself."

He wasn't sure what to say to that. She wasn't looking at him, and she sounded irritated, like when she first came to the castle and everything she said was touched with sarcasm. But they were past that, they knew each other so much better now. "I'm glad nothing happened," he said at last. "Did you come back here to check on Blair?"

She glanced at Blair and then back up at him. Her lips wrinkled as she pursed them together. "I suppose so. And I just… wanted to see what happened. I was watching your speech. But when everyone started pushing forward, I got shoved out of the way. Are you all right?"

All sarcasm was gone now. Her voice sounded entirely sincere, with a special emphasis on the word 'you' that made him turn his eyes down to the wooden floor. No one had asked him that yet. It wasn't something he even considered, because of course he was fine. Blair was the one who caught the swing meant for him, and the guards made sure no one else could touch him. And if all the crowd's complaints still rang in his head, it didn't even matter. He didn't get to be injured by them because they were all true. The riot was his fault. He was not the victim here.

"It was terrible, what they said," Madeleine went on when he did not reply.

He glanced at her and gave a humorless laugh. "It's nothing I haven't heard before," he said in a low voice. "I think the same things every day."

"But it's not true," Madeleine said, her voice soft but emphatic. She reached forward and put her hand on his arm. He could feel the solidity of each of her fingers through his sleeve as she looked up at him, but she quickly removed her hand as she glanced toward the window. Ivan followed her gaze and spotted Lord Luck watching them. They locked eyes for a moment, and then Lord Luck faced Lady Edith once again.

Ivan remembered everything Madeleine had told him about Lord Luck then, that he'd sold her into servitude even though she was his own daughter. He imagined this wasn't easy for her, being in the home she'd been turned out of. Seeing Lord Luck couldn't be pleasant. He squared his shoulders, moving over slightly to block Lord Luck from her vision, trying to distract her. "Tell me truthfully since you were watching my speech, how horrible was it?" he asked, forcing a smile to make light of the situation.

She smiled back at him. "It started off badly, but you did pull yourself together for a few lines. They didn't give you much of a chance."

He shrugged. "I didn't need much of a chance to ruin it. You'll have to give me speaking lessons."

"If I had to talk in front of that many people, I couldn't do it either," she said. "Don't be so hard on yourself."

He looked at her and gave a real smile then. Blair had been telling him these same things all afternoon, but when Madeleine said it, it actually sounded true. Talking with her made it seem like the situation wasn't all that bad. It wasn't ideal, but it wasn't quite the disaster he'd been making it out to be.

"What?" Madeleine asked after a moment of him just watching her. She was smiling but looked a bit nervous, constantly glancing around the room. Her cheeks were tinged pink, and he thought that she was pretty, despite the scars. She was quite pretty.

He shook his head. "Nothing. I just… It's good to talk to you."

"You talk to me almost every day," she said, looking a bit skeptical.

"And I enjoy it," he said. It was odd how easy it was to say so. Most people he didn't enjoy talking to at all. It was hard and awkward, but with Madeleine—it wasn't always easy, but it was easier than most, and he always felt better afterward. Calmer.

Madeleine was still looking up at him, but before either of them said anything more, Lord Luck interrupted. "Madeleine, since you're here, why don't you get the prince some tea? You are his maid, aren't you?"

Ivan felt his heartbeat quicken in his chest. He didn't actually want to stay much longer, and while he was here, he'd rather just go on talking to Madeleine than have her serve him tea. He wanted to say no, but he didn't want to seem rude either. "That's really not necessary," he said after a moment, glancing at Madeleine who had only moved so far as to look at her father.

"But I insist," Lord Luck replied. "I won't have the crown prince in my house and make him stand around like some messenger boy. Come, sit down and Madeleine will bring you some tea." He started to move a chair closer to the small table in front of Blair, waving Ivan over to it.

"I don't need anything," Ivan said again, feeling even more panicked. Tea was one thing but drinking it and talking to Lord Luck and everyone else was something else entirely. He just wanted to keep talking to Madeleine, but he supposed that wasn't acceptable. He was a prince, and she was a maid—but this was her house, Lord Luck her father; she was a lady by rights. "I probably won't stay much longer anyway. In fact, Madeleine can come back with me—and the guards. We'll make sure you get back safely," he went on, glancing at her.

"Please, this is the least we can do," Lord Luck countered once again. "You are our prince. You do so much for your people. I only want to offer you what little hospitality I can. I know having one lowly maid bring tea for you is hardly fitting for a crown prince, but would you refuse such a humble offering?"

He saw Madeleine twitch at being referred to as "one lowly maid," but now he felt like he had no choice in the matter. He was a crown prince, and he had a duty to his people. He needed to talk to them and look collected and friendly. If he was Thaddeus, he'd stay and be sociable. Show his people that he was actually interested in them. Blair was watching him from the settee with wide dark eyes and her red lips pressed together. She looked hopeful that he would stay. "All right," he gave in. "Just one cup of tea. Then I must be going."

He sat down in the chair close to the settee, feeling his whole weight sink into the soft cushion. Lord Luck sat in the armchair on the other side of Blair and pulled Edith over to sit on the armrest beside him. She seemed surprised at his arm around her waist but sat with a thin arm draped over his shoulders. Rafe was standing by the window, and Ivan felt a bit nervous as he looked at them all, but he needed to learn how to talk to his people. Blair smiled at him when he looked toward her, and he smiled back until he heard Lord Luck's raised voice grating in his ears. "Madeleine, are you going to bring the tea as I commanded or just stand there idly?"

Ivan glanced back to where she stood alone near the door, apart from the circle the rest of them had made together. Her eyes were on Lord Luck, expressionless, and her squared shoulders had slumped forward. She seemed pale—freckles and scars dark against her white skin. He felt guilty suddenly as she was so clearly separated from the rest of them: a servant in her father's house. He didn't want her to bring him anything, but he'd already accepted the tea. What was he supposed to do? He turned his eyes to the floor as she passed him in a flurry of skirt, hurrying to the door at the far end of the room. The door slammed against its frame as she left, and then Ivan looked up again, wondering what to say.

Lord Luck smiled and spoke first, completely ignoring the issue of Madeleine. "It's an honor to have you in my house, your highness. It's not often one has a crown prince under their roof. I'm sorry we left you talking with Madeleine so long instead of attending to your presence properly. We all came in in a bit of a frenzy, I'm afraid."

"Oh. That's perfectly all right," Ivan said. "I didn't mind. I'm happy to be here." He wanted to say something about Madeleine—that he was fine with talking to her, he enjoyed it, but he reminded himself that it didn't matter right now. He needed to sound grateful and happy and… like he knew was speaking with a purpose instead of just blabbering on about his maid.

"I do feel horrible for what happened to you during the festival," Lord Luck said. "It should not have happened like that. But I suppose you can't stop people from voicing their opinions. If the people of Wyndl want another war, they'll make that known."

Ivan pursed his lips together. He didn't want this conversation to be thrown into politics, but he supposed there was no way of stopping it. And perhaps Lord Luck would have some valuable insights. He did not respect the man in regards to Madeleine, but Lord Luck was one of his father's trusted lords who came to many meetings at the castle. "Do you think they really think that?" he asked. "They want another war?"

Lord Luck sighed. "That is what they seemed to be indicating. Personally, I don't think it's so much that they want another war as that they weren't happy with the way the peace treaty was negotiated. We may have won the war, but what did we gain from it?"

"We gained peace," Ivan said slowly, giving the only answer he could think of. Peace was what his father said they were trying to gain, though admittedly nothing seemed very peaceful right now. Half the people in the room had obtained some sort of injury during the riot—minor injuries, but even so, there was nothing very peaceful about it.

"Did we?" Lord Luck asked. "Those attacks at the border… well, it's not my place to tell the crown prince how we should have acted. It simply seems to me that the people think we could have gained much more. The Ascharans were the ones to surrender, so why didn't we take their land or other resources? Of course there's no easy way of doing that now. Breaking a peace treaty is no simple act. If you had the backing of all your people, I suppose it could be done, but… that's up to the king, obviously."

Ivan considered Lord Luck's words. What he said made sense, and it didn't sound as treasonous as when Rafe had said more or less the same thing. It sounded like a real option. If the entire country disagreed with the treaty, it was only sensible to break it. But breaking a treaty sounded so far removed from anything human. What it actually meant was more war—more dead men, more bloodshed, more broken families. "My father wants to begin a new age of peace," he said, looking at Lord Luck. "We've been at war too long. He wants us to eventually not just tolerate Aschare but to have an active alliance with them. That's why we passed the trading mandate."

"Yes, I'm aware of your father's policies. But I do worry that to some people it will appear as though he has forgotten the violence Aschare committed against us. They have been our enemies for nearly twenty years. That is not something easy to change, particularly when it seems that they have only received benefits from losing the war they started. Some people may think that we could have overtaken their country completely."

Ivan was relieved when the door swung open to reveal Madeleine coming in with a tea tray, and he could appear distracted rather than coming up with a good reply to Lord Luck's speech.

Lord Luck, though, seemed to have not lost his concentration. "In any case, you'll have to decide your own stance on these issues before you become king," he said as Madeleine set the tray on the table and took the first cup and saucer in hand.

"Sugar, your highness?" she asked him, bowing her head in full formality. Her voice was quiet, but there was just a hint of anger as she stressed his title, reminding him that he knew the truth about her and yet he was still making her a servant in her own home. But she had told him not to interfere—what was he supposed to do?

"No, just tea is fine. Thank you." He tried to meet her eyes, but she kept them set on the task at hand, staring down at the tea cup even as she delivered it into his hands. His fingers brushed hers as he took it, but she pulled away immediately.

She quickly served everyone else but Rafe, who shook his head when she reached him. "I don't want any," he said, sending her back to the table where she glanced around at everyone.

"Is there anything else I can get for any of you?" she asked, in a dull, toneless voice.

When no one spoke, Lord Luck answered for them, "I think we're all fine for now, but you might as well stand here and wait to see. I may want another cup of tea once I've finished."

Ivan glanced at her to see her jaw quivering as she stepped back to the wall, folding her hands behind her to watch them all have tea and not take part. He could see she was unhappy, and she had a right to be. This was her father talking to her like she was a maid. He shifted in his seat, wondering if he ought to do something, but he wanted her father's approval. But as he tried to come up with some new conversation topic, she was all he could think about. Finally, he opened his mouth, hoping some words would come to him, but before he managed to actually say anything, Rafe spoke.

"Actually, I think I'll start back to the castle, and I might as well take Madeleine with me. She has to get there sooner or later, and there's no reason for her to stay here. What do you say, Madeleine?"

Madeleine turned toward Rafe, looking suddenly much more energetic as she nodded at him. "Yes, I'll just go with you now. That will be simpler."

Both of them looked at Lord Luck, who merely shrugged. "If you must," he said. "Have a good night."

Madeleine gave Rafe a small smile. "Thank you," she said quietly under her breath like it was meant only for Rafe to hear, and Ivan guessed she was thanking him not just for the offer but for getting her away from here. He watched the two of them exchanging looks and then glanced down at his tea. He should have been the one to do that, to rescue her from this place she hated. But he had other duties too. He was trying to be a warm, sociable prince—someone approachable who didn't disappear at the first chance. It didn't seem fair that Rafe always got to do what he wanted, and he always did it smoothly so no one ever questioned him, while Ivan blundered through even the simplest social niceties.

Lady Edith stood up from her armrest then, pulling away from her husband to reach her hand out to Rafe. "Thank you for what you did today," she said, looking him in the eye. "You kept my daughter safe and thought to inform all of us what was happening. That means a lot to me."

Rafe took her hand and gave a small nod. "It was the least I could do." He glanced toward the settee. "Blair, I'm glad you're all right. I hope I'll see you again sometime soon."

Blair kept her eyes fixed on her blanket. Finally, she glanced up at Rafe. "Perhaps. I hope this won't be the last time I see his highness," she glanced at Ivan, "and if I do see him again, I suppose you'll be around as well."

Rafe did not reply to her but glanced at Ivan. "We'll see you back at the castle then," he said. Ivan nodded to him, and both he and Madeleine disappeared out the door. He listened to their footsteps down the hallway, and then they were gone. He still had to stay for half a cup of tea, and all he wanted was to leave with them.

* * *

Madeleine made her way through the castle slowly, tending to the fire in each bedroom before dinner was over. It was early summer now, but nights could still be cold, and it was her job to make sure the royal family was warm enough. She approached Ivan's door last, half dreading going in. He wouldn't be there, but she wasn't sure if that was better or worse. A part of her was angry at him and another part just felt like crying. There were too many thoughts in her head for her to know what to do with them.

All she knew was that she had been humiliated by her father, and Ivan just sat there. It was like some horrible jest on her life that she couldn't have anything she wanted. First her status had been stripped away; she was made a servant in her own home, but at least she still had fire dancing. When she failed at that, she was miserable, but here at the castle she had Ivan. They were friends; they were—well, it didn't matter what they were; he was a prince, and she was nobody now. Her birthright had been taken away along with any chance at happiness.

Finally she lifted a hand to the door and went in, shutting it behind her. It was quiet inside, and dark. She went to the fireplace and knelt down, striking a match against the stone. The small orange flame quickly lit into the kindling, and she picked up the poker to maneuver the logs until it was a warm blaze, heating her face. She leaned back on her feet to get farther away from the flames. The orange flickered into yellows and reds, and tendrils of blue rose up as the fire licked the wood. All the colors she once wore, but now she was afraid of them. Afraid of getting burnt. She heard the door creak open and then Ivan's voice.

"Oh. Madeleine. Hello."

She took in a breath and then stood up to face him. He was standing between the door and his bed, looking surprised to see her. "I was just getting the fire started," she said. Then looking toward the ground, she added on, "Your highness."

When she glanced back up at him, she saw that his jaw was twitching. "Madeleine, you don't have to… I can make my own fires, you know."

"It's my job," she said then, a little louder. She didn't know what she expected from him, or even what she wanted, but it just wasn't fair that here he was so familiar with her, but out in the real world, she was nothing to him.

He pursed his lips together. "Well—yes, but…"

She crossed her arms over her chest as he trailed off. "But what?"

He opened his mouth to speak slowly. "It's just… I don't see you that way. We're friends, aren't we?"

She gave a short laugh. He could say that now; he could mean it even, but the world wouldn't let them be friends. She was in a different class from him. "Do you usually let your friends wait on you hand and foot?"

He looked surprised at this comment. His eyes widened, and his mouth opened for a moment before he shut it and lifted a hand to rub the back of his neck. "Madeleine, if you're upset about this afternoon… I asked you before if there was anything I could do. You don't have to live like this."

She laughed again. His voice was so earnest that she almost believed he could change things, but even if he wanted to, it was impossible. Her father would deny all of it. He'd never introduced her to anyone, always left her at home alone. Hardly anyone even knew that he had a daughter, and she certainly didn't look like a lady. She lifted a hand to feel the scars on the right side of her face, rough and dry beneath her fingers. Ivan was still watching her for some reply. She dropped her hand to her side. "And what are you planning on doing about it? You don't ever know what to do about anything. You can't even talk to your parents by yourself. What could you possibly do?"

His face slowly lost its expressions; his eyes looked dull and his jaw was squared. "What do you want, Madeleine?" he asked in a voice like ice. He was angry at her. She'd never seen him angry before—confused, upset, even irritated maybe but never angry. He had a reason to be, though. She was attacking him for things that were out of his control. It didn't matter. Even if he did try to do something for her, her father would turn her in for treason before he let her be a lady.

She felt the prickling of tears in her eyes. She was sorry now for what she said, but she was just so frustrated with everything! She wanted to be a fire dancer, she wanted to be a lady, she wanted to be far away from here, but it was all for nothing. Nothing ever went right for her. And now she'd gone and ruined her and Ivan's friendship too, because she wanted more than she could have. "I don't want anything from you," she said finally.

"Then leave," he said. He looked her straight in the eyes, no faltering. He seemed more serious and more sure of himself than he ever had before.

She opened her mouth and then shut it again, looked at the floor, then back up at him. Nothing in his face changed. No pity. No apologies. She took a shaky breath and hurried to the door.


	17. Chapter 17

**And we're back again! Here's a long one, folks. Remember to review when you reach the end! Comment on your favorite part of the chapter! Or, if you like, your favorite part of the story as a whole?**

**Oi, also, a couple of review replies:**

**Express-Yourself101: You have private messaging disabled, so I can't send an actual one! You should fix that. :) Anyway, I'm glad you like the story, and Madeleine is one of my favorite characters also. Hope you enjoy her time in this chapter.**

**The anonymous Akora: I'm happy you are still reading! And it makes my day to make your day. :D I got this chapter up a bit quicker for you! Thanks for reviewing!**

* * *

Ivan sat down at the long meeting table with his parents and General Wescott. With just the four of them at one end, it seemed very empty, the smooth surface going on and on before them. "Is this all of us?" he asked as his father sat down at the head of the table. Ivan sat next to him on one side, with his mother and the general on the other.

"Yes," his father replied, turning his head to look at him. "What happened yesterday, and what we're going to do about it, is between us. Our family. I've asked General Wescott to join us because he has been one of my most trusted advisers since the beginning of the war." His father turned to look at Wescott then, who had folded his hands and set them on the table. "And furthermore, he's been a friend. Which is what we need now."

The general gave a small smile. "I am happy to help you in any way I can, your majesty." He glanced at the queen and Ivan as well, nodding to each of them. "That goes for all of you."

Ivan was glad no one else was here. He didn't want any of the other lords there watching him, muddling his thoughts. He didn't know how to talk to them. He looked at his father with his gray beard and kingly posture and his mother with her serene face and the gold necklace draped above her neckline. He did not entirely know how to talk to them either. They knew how to be regal, and he did not.

He was grateful when his father spoke, keeping his mind from other things. He was trying to shut Madeleine out of his head, though it was extremely difficult to do. Whenever he thought of her, it felt like he could get lost in his thoughts for hours. He kept wondering why she turned on him like that, why she said what she'd said, if she meant it. Did she truly think he was as pathetic as she made him sound? Had she merely been hiding her disdain for him this whole time? But she was his friend, he'd thought. He'd trusted her more than he trusted anyone. It was a cyclical thought process he could not escape from, so he tried to ignore it—and ignore her as much as possible. She seemed to do the same, and he wasn't sure whether that made it easier or harder.

"It is clear from what happened at Gathering Day that our people do not trust us. Our goal today is to develop a strategy to change that. General, you said you had some news for us?" the king began.

General Wescott leaned forward, and his mouth seemed to grow tighter. "Yes. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I heard this morning that when word spread about the riot here, other villages seemed to have similar reactions, though on a smaller scale. They were only minor scuffles, but the people at least in the surrounding area all seemed to share the opinion that Aschare should still be our enemy and that your majesties do not have the people's best interests at heart."

King Nicholas sighed. "That is ill news indeed. I had hoped it was a mere heat of the moment complaint, in Saimes only. But if what you say is true, we have a larger problem. I believe most of their anger is a response to the trading mandate." Here the king paused, frowning as he ran a hand over his beard. "But I truly believe it is for the best. Too long we lived in war, and before that always in cold distrust of the Ascharans. I want to go forward in peace. We both have resources we can gain from one another. I want the people to see that and to trust me. I am their king. I want the best for them."

His face looked sad more than anything else, and Queen Sidonie leaned over to put her hand on him, running her fingers up and down his arm. "It's only natural that they would not entirely trust us. We were at war for sixteen years, and we are not a country with a large government. We governed from the battle lines as well as we could, but the truth is that most of our people haven't heard from us in all that time. We'll have to earn back their trust."

The king nodded at her. "That's true. That is what we need."

"I can send some of my men to the villages where further riots have taken place," General Wescott said. "I know you want to look like a kind and caring ruler, but when this mob mentality is running through the country, people can become dangerous. We saw what happened at Gathering Day. And there is a chance that some of the lords have sided with the people. If that is the case… well, it's best to stop revolts before they happen, your majesty."

King Nicholas nodded again. "Yes, you're right. That's sensible. Send small groups of men out to all the main villages. But I don't want them just patrolling the streets. They should keep an eye out for any forming revolts and be there to stop any riots that could break out, but in general, I want them to be there to help the people. Just like when we sent help to the villages near the border after hearing about the attacks there, I want your men to repair any damage from the war they might find. If there's none, they'll do whatever else the village needs. Road repair, fixing anything old and falling apart, that sort of thing. They should be seen as ambassadors from myself, sent to help."

"Understood," General Wescott said.

There was a pause then as the king looked ahead, seeming to see far away from the meeting room, to another place, another time. At last he sighed and turned back at the general. "Do you think any of the lords would side with the people over me? Is there anyone I ought not to trust?"

General Wescott shrugged. "It's difficult to say, your majesty. I did notice that the riot seemed to break out incredibly fast. It occurred to me that it could have been set up, but it's impossible to know for sure."

Ivan pursed his lips together then. He thought of his conversation with Lord Luck and wondered if he ought to mention it. But it wasn't as if Lord Luck had been siding with the people; he'd merely clarified their position. He seemed to have a great deal of insight into their thoughts, though, and Ivan couldn't help remember that night on the way back from Aschare. Was he planning something? Nothing had come of it yet, though. There was no proof that any of it was connected.

"It pains me to think that any of them could be responsible for anything like that," said the king. "But I suppose it is a possibility that would be foolish to ignore. We'll have to keep our eyes open."

"I'll be on the lookout," General Wescott said. "I'll report anything I find immediately."

"Hopefully there will be nothing to report," King Nicholas replied.

Ivan was looking down at the table, but when he glanced up again, he met his mother's eyes, watching him before she spoke. "In the meantime," she said, "there are some other things that would help our country seem more stable and peaceful to our people."

Ivan inwardly groaned. He had a feeling he knew what was coming. They were going to talk to him about getting married again. He didn't want to think about it.

His father picked up where his mother left off, turning to face him as well. "Yes, Ivan, it has come to our attention that we may not have done the best job preparing you to be a crown prince. When the war happened, that was all that mattered. You and Thaddeus were trained as soldiers, but unfortunately we paid little thought to life after war. As a result, I think you are… not as prepared as you should be for the situations you are now being put in."

Ivan felt his heartbeat speed up. They were saying this because his speech was so bad. Because he never said anything worthwhile in any meetings, if he said anything at all. He was a bad prince—a failure to them. Everything said about him in the riot was true and now they were ashamed of him.

"It's not your fault," his mother said, giving him a small smile across the table. "It's ours for not giving you the training you need."

His father glanced at her and nodded. "We've decided that you'll begin lessons tomorrow—training to teach you skills for speaking to crowds and during meetings. You'll be briefed on the important political issues we're currently facing, you'll learn how to speak to nobility as well as the lower, working class people, how to behave at various social functions."

Ivan nodded. He supposed it wasn't all that bad. He still felt a bit like a failure. He doubted Thaddeus would need this kind of instruction, but it was what he needed. He didn't know how to be the model prince he needed to be. He found it too hard to disguise what was really happening in his head, and maybe this would help. "Thank you," he said at last, when his parents kept watching him.

"And speaking of social functions," his mother went on, "in two months, we would like to have a ball. We hope that the political situation will have calmed down by then, and it would be a good time to announce an engagement." She watched for his reaction and when he gave none, she glanced at his father again, who nodded at her. They were both in agreement. "It will be the start of autumn then. The people would see that we're moving on, and we would have a peaceful winter, with you just married. If you had an heir in the next year or so… it would go a long way in stabilizing the country. Especially with Thaddeus gone."

Ivan didn't meet her eyes, or his father's. Two months seemed so soon. So soon to tie his life to someone else when he hadn't even sorted it out for himself yet. How was he supposed to be ready to marry someone in two months? And who was he supposed to marry? Blair was the only lady he'd gotten to know at all, and she was kind to him, but… he just wasn't sure. He wasn't sure about anything.

"Ivan," his mother said, "What do you think?"

He forced himself to meet her eyes and gave a small shrug. "It seems very quick."

"I know it does, but we think it's for the best."

Just like they thought the trading mandate was for the best, while the people hated it. He wondered if there was any truth to what Lord Luck said. Maybe his parents weren't right about everything. But more likely, he was the one in the wrong. He was a prince and this was his duty. His parents wanted peace, and that meant he had to shut off this panicked world inside him. He needed to forget all this confusion and fear and learn to be strong. He tried to sit up straighter and look more nonchalant about this news, like it was all fine with him. "I'm just not sure how to… be ready by then." He glanced at his mother again.

She smiled at him. "Well, your relationship with Lady Blair seems to be flowering. You did well in escorting her home and stayed a while after. She seems like a good possibility for a wife. Or if not, we can invite any of the other young ladies here as well. The choice is yours, but we do ask that you make it within these two months, so it can be announced at the Autumn Ball. You'll learn how to dance before then, of course, so you can take the floor with your new fiancée."

"Can it be a masquerade ball?" he asked and then bit his tongue. He wasn't sure why he mentioned it. It was Madeleine who wanted that, and they weren't friends anymore, if they ever had been.

His mother answered before he could take it back, "Well—yes, I suppose it could. That would be diverting. I remember we used to have those from time to time, before the war." She glanced at the king who smiled at her and then at Ivan.

"It's a good idea. A very good idea. We'll remind the people of the splendor Wyndl once was," said the king.

Ivan bit his lip as he looked at his parents' smiling faces. It wasn't his idea. It was Madeleine's, and now he would think of her every step of the way to it.

"Well, if there's nothing else, I think this is a good start," the king said then, looking at General Wescott.

The general nodded. "Nothing else from me. Except—Ivan, we were sorting through the supplies and found some of Thaddeus's things that must have gotten misplaced after the last battle. I thought you should be the one to have them."

Ivan felt his throat constricting. More of Thaddeus's things? He had enough trouble looking through everything from their childhood. He wasn't sure he could handle anything more. "I—um…"

"Come to the barracks sometime and you can take them. Or I can have them sent over. Whatever you wish."

"I… I can come get them," he said, stumbling over the words. He wasn't sure he had any intention of going to get them, but at least this way he could do it on his own time.

"We'd like to see them, too, Ivan," his mother said then. Her eyes were wide and blue as she gazed at him across the table. "But you can have the first look. You two were so close."

He broke eye contact with her. Close? Were they? Couldn't she see through him to know that it wasn't what she thought—that he killed Thaddeus? He murdered her son, and she acted like nothing was wrong!

When he didn't reply, the rest of them gradually stood up. "We'll see you at dinner, Ivan," his father said. "You have some time to yourself until then."

He nodded, his eyes stuck on the table as the rest of them left the room. He heard his mother and father whispering as they left, and he wondered what they said. His reluctance to say anything about Thaddeus must have indicated to them that something was wrong. Were they ever going to realize what really happened? Or were they just talking more about his incompetence, his complete inability to act as a prince? Were they disappointed in him? They had to be disappointed in him, and they didn't even know the worst of it.

After a moment, he stood up, pushing himself out of his seat with his hands on the table. These thoughts were leading him nowhere. He was better off avoiding them. Just like Madeleine. The less he thought about it, the better. He went out the door and down the hallway, toward the staircase that would lead to his room. As his feet tapped on each stair in rhythm, he heard another set of footsteps tapping above him. He looked up and saw Madeleine coming down the stairs toward him. Her hair was tied in a braid that bounced against her shoulder as she came down. Their eyes met as they came near to each other, holding for a moment.

She was the first to break away, facing the stairs in front of her as she passed him. He paused to turn his head, watching her reach the bottom of the staircase. His jaw twitched, and he wondered if he could say something to her, something that would make things right between them again. But he couldn't think of anything. She was the one who insulted him, broke his trust. All he'd wanted was to make her happy, and she spoke to him just like everyone at the riot—like he was nothing, an utter failure. He couldn't trust her anymore. He couldn't trust anyone.

* * *

In the early morning mist, Madeleine pulled her shawl tight around her shoulders as she hid behind a big evergreen tree. She was supposed to be going to see her father today, but she didn't want to go. She had nothing to tell him. She hadn't spoken to Ivan since their argument except what was necessary to do her work. She couldn't go to her father like that. He'd be angry, and… she couldn't take that today.

Instead she came here, to the glade where the fire dancers practiced. Through the fog she could see their fires starting, orange glows rising from the ground. The three dancers closest to her were kindling their fires, throwing in dead leaves and twigs. Farther away, she could see others twirling in tight pirouettes, practice skirts flying out around them. Called names echoed through the mist, with occasional trilling laughter. Madeleine could smell the wood smoke spreading through the air and breathed it in heavily, leaning her forehead against the trunk of the tree. It felt smooth and solid, comforting somehow as she watched everything she'd lost.

The fog hid any individual faces, which was good. She didn't want to recognize anyone, or be recognized by them. She only saw their graceful figures spinning and leaping, saw their fires flickering from orange to red and back again. They were so beautiful. She'd never been to many practices even when she was one of them. They had them at all hours of the day, but she was usually busy working. Mostly she practiced on her own, but these early morning practices were some of the few she made it to.

She remembered how the morning air felt as she moved through it, the cold dancing across her skin as she spun, fingers turning blue, fighting to keep the feeling in her toes. Then the fires roared up, and they'd all grow warm, tossing aside the shawls knotted fiercely around their shoulders. As the sun slowly climbed over the trees and burnt away the morning mist, sweat would begin to drip down their arced backs as they twirled and leaped, lunged with aching thighs and spun their burning staffs until their arms shook.

Watching now, she missed it—suddenly and achingly in every part of her body. Her cold toes longed for the heat of a fire, to leap and soar over it. Her arms wanted the weight of her staff in her hands, and her scars burned. She wanted to dance.

But it didn't matter. She'd failed. She was humiliated. If she went to Madame Clarisse now—well, she had no idea what the woman would say, but she knew she wouldn't be able to stand it. Not with her scars. Not with the memory of everyone watching her fall. Even if she could somehow start over again somewhere else, where no one knew her—what level would she start at? Red, the level she'd passed years ago? It all took time, and then it was gone in an instant. It wasn't fair. And yet, there was no one but herself to blame.

She watched one of the girls take a graceful leap over the highest flames, legs extending to nearly a straight line. She held no staff, but the jump was perfect, landing with bent knees on the other side, not stumbling once. Certainly not falling into the fire.

With a tight throat, Madeleine turned away from the dancers and started down the path toward the road. She walked slowly, looking up at the trees that bent into an arch overhead. She didn't know what to do. She couldn't be a fire dancer, and Ivan hated her now. Her chin started trembling. It felt like everything was falling apart.

When she reached the road, she stopped and took a deep breath. Simon's field was only a short walk from here. She hesitated for a moment and then started in that direction. She wasn't sure she wanted to see him, but she felt like she needed to see someone to stop her from losing her mind.

It wasn't long before she reached the green field, dotted with white geese. The grass was longer now and a deeper, more verdant color. Time had passed since she'd last come here. She found Simon sitting on the ground, leaning against one of the few trees. His eyes were closed. There were a few strands of grass in his blond hair, grown longer than she remembered and falling into his eyes. Around him, white geese waddled around and pecked at the ground, starting to honk as she approached. Simon opened his eyes and widened them when they saw her. He quickly rose to his feet. "Maddie!" he exclaimed. "I haven't seen you in a while. How are you?"

It felt odd to be called that nickname, and it made it feel even longer since she'd seen him than it really had. "I'm… fine," she said slowly. Any other response seemed too hard to explain.

"You have the day off again?"

She nodded. "I have a day off every week."

"I haven't seen you in a lot longer than a week," Simon said, kicking at a goose that was pecking a bit too close to his toes.

Madeleine walked a few more steps forward, joining him in the shade of the tree. "I've been busy," she said.

When she didn't go on, Simon glanced at her with a raised brow. "You've been busy? Is that all you have to say? What else has been going on at the castle? You must have some interesting stories."

Madeleine paused before answering. She forgot that he would have so many questions. She hadn't told him any of the important things in her life for so long now, she didn't know how to sort through it all to decide what she could and couldn't say. She wasn't sure she wanted to talk about any of it. "Not really," she said finally. "I just do my work." He looked unsatisfied, so she searched her mind for some inconsequential story to tell him. "A few weeks ago, the queen had me take them all on a picnic," she said at last. "It was the prince's birthday. They thought I would know a good spot. I took them down by the river."

"Oh, so you're going around with the royal family now," Simon said, grinning at her. "You must have gotten quite close to them. Maybe it's a good thing your father sent you there after all."

Madeleine pursed her lips together. He sounded so flippant about it, smiling like it was something to joke about it. He knew nothing about it. It felt like something inside her snapped as she answered, "No. No, that's just it. I'm not going around with the royal family, and I'm not close to them. Not at all. I'm nothing to them. I don't even count as nobility, so they can order me around to do whatever they want. Make their beds. Do their laundry. Sweep their floors. Take them on a picnic. Listen to every word they say and then leave whenever they tell me to go!" She was angry now, her fingers clenched in fists. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair of Ivan to act like they were friends and then just order her away like he did, when all she wanted was to be close to him.

Simon seemed confused by her speech, his pale eyebrows knitted together in a frown. "Is there something you want to talk about, Maddie?"

She crossed her arms over her chest. "No."

"All right," Simon said after a pause. "Have you been home yet, today? You usually go for a while on your days off, right?"

"No," she said again, shaking her head. "I haven't been there. And I'm not going there." His questions only reminded her that her father was at home waiting for her, and he would be angry when she never came. She squared her jaw. Well, it didn't matter. All her childhood, she'd waited for him to come home and actually talk to her for once, actually treat her like she was his daughter. He never did.

"Oh. Well, what are your plans for the day then?" Simon asked.

"Why, do you want me to leave?" she snapped back, turning toward him as she felt her scars flaring in anger. She had a gnawing feeling in her head that she was being unreasonable, but she just wanted someone to be happy to see her and not ask her all these questions that reminded her of everything she didn't want to remember.

"No, I don't want you to leave," Simon said, frowning at her. "It was just a question. I don't know what you're so upset about."

She pursed her lips together as she looked down at the grass growing around her feet. When she snuck a glance at Simon, he was still frowning, like he didn't really want her there. Not if she was in this kind of mood, anyway, and she couldn't change how she felt. If he only wanted her around when she was all smiles and small talk, then she didn't want to be around him either. "I didn't have any plans," she said quietly. "I just came here. But I see you're disappointed with my company."

"I'm not disappointed, Maddie, I just—"

"My name is Madeleine!" she shouted at him. Her voice was loud, but afterward the silence seemed louder. Simon looked hurt and confused. The corners of his mouth seemed pinched, and his eyes watched her like he didn't even know her. She looked away at the geese waddling through the grass. "I'm sorry, Simon," she said without facing him, her voice just a whisper amid the rustling of the grass in the wind. "I didn't mean to shout. I just… I don't know what's come over me."

There was a long pause before he spoke. "I understand. It's not about me. I just wish you could tell me what it is about."

She looked at him standing apart from her and remembered when things were different, when they were both small and would run over these fields making up games together. There were still things in her life she hated then—the way her father ignored her, how she knew nothing about her mother. She never told him all the times she overheard her nannies asking her father to go see her and how many times he refused. When she was with Simon, she pretended everything was just fine.

Back then, pretending was good enough. When they played together, it felt like everything really was all right. Nothing could come between them. Now in this past month, all her problems had grown up bigger than her, bigger than the both of them. Everything that occupied her mind would never have crossed his. There was no way to tell him everything, no way to bridge the gap.

After a long, long moment, she sighed. "I'm sorry, Simon," she said again. "I think maybe I should go."

Simon's expression looked pained. "Maddie—Madeleine," he said her name again, trying to protest, but he had nothing to follow it up with.

She shook her head, then forced a smile. "I'll see you again, of course. Some other day, I'll come, and… we'll talk. We'll really talk." It sounded like a lie the moment it left her lips, but she had to pretend it was true, for him at least.

Finally, he nodded. "Goodbye, Madeleine. It was good to see you."

"It was good to see you too," she said, holding her smile in place as she started back to the road. She kept walking once she reached it, in case he was still watching her, but she didn't know where she was going. Simon was her only real friend in Saimes, and she'd shut him out. Then she had a thought: Myron. He knew almost everything, and he never asked questions. He listened to what she wanted to tell him and didn't ask for anything more. She had a feeling he'd be the only person who could handle her today.

It was a bit of a trek into Saimes, but she went at a brisk pace and reached it in under an hour. In the square, she didn't pause to talk to anyone but went straight to Myron's shop. He was working at his desk and looked up as she entered. "Madeleine," he said, "it's good to see you again. I'm glad to know that you survived the riot after you left me. I did worry, you know."

He raised his eyebrows at her, and she gave a small smile as she came to sit at the corner of his desk. "I'm sorry I didn't come find you again. I was a bit distracted."

Myron gave a short laugh. "No doubt you were. I hope to never see such idiotic chaos again. We just got out of the longest war I can ever remember hearing about. I'm not sure why folk are clamoring to be back in one."

Madeleine smiled but said nothing, and after a moment he went on again.

"You have the day off from your castle job?" She nodded, and he ran a hand along his gray beard. "You know, it's been a while since I've seen that Simon fellow who was a friend of yours. Is he too busy to come along with you?"

She pursed her lips together and nodded. "He has work to do." That was not the whole truth, though, and she felt bad lying to Myron. It wasn't something that needed to be secret. "I did go see Simon. But we… had a fight, sort of. At the castle, it's just—everything's so different there. When he asked me about it, I snapped at him. I've been doing that with everyone lately." She stared down intently at the lines in the wood of his desk, tracing over them with her right index finger.

When Myron said nothing, she looked up at him. He was watching her, but his face seemed neutral. "Are you going to tell me about it?" he asked then. His voice was light, as though he didn't care much one way or another.

She let out a shaky breath and then shook her head. "No. I don't want to talk about it."

"Well, perhaps it's for the best," Myron said. He pulled his spectacles out of his shirt pocket and put them on his head. "Now I've been thinking, if that Prince Ivan ever does decide to hold masquerade ball, I'll be getting a lot of orders in, and I'm a bit out of practice—"

"He won't have one," Madeleine said, before Myron could finish. Her voice wasn't loud, but it was adamant. She'd ruined any chance of that ever happening.

He frowned at her. "And what makes you say that?"

"I just know," Madeleine said, looking down at the desk again, refusing to meet Myron's eyes. "He won't do it. There will never be a masquerade ball while he has a say in it."

Myron let out a snort. "I doubt you know as much as you think, young lady. When you grow as old as I am, you will realize that people are seldom right about the things they think are the most certain. Now before you went trying to infect me with your pessimism, I was about to ask if you'd like me to make you a mask."

At that, she shot our of her slouch and leaned forward to face him, eyes wide. "Oh, Myron, really? You would make one for me? Even though there's no occasion at all?"

He smiled. "I would indeed, free of charge. I need the practice."

"How do we start?" Madeleine asked eagerly. It didn't matter that it was more than likely that she would never wear this mask. Ivan wouldn't have a masquerade ball. Even if he did, she wouldn't go, and the only other thing masks were used for was fire dancing. She was done with that. But even so, Myron's masks were beautiful, and she would be beyond happy to have one of her own.

"I'll need some supplies," Myron said, rising from his desk. He walked to the far end of the shop and disappeared into the back room for a few minutes. When he came out, he was carrying pencils, some sheets of paper, and a measuring tape. "For now, I just want to take some measurements and try to come up with a design. I'll do the molding later. It's a process that takes time."

She sat patiently as he carefully measured out her face and marked down the numbers. When he was finished, he sat down and drew a rough oval with the same measurements and sat staring down at it. She watched him with interest, but when a few moments passed without him doing anything more, she asked slowly, "Have you ever made masks for the fire dancers?"

Myron shook his head. "No. I've heard of a few having masks like the ones I make—that White Flame woman, from a few years ago. Well, I suppose it's been more than a few years by now. But she was one of the only ones. Around here they just make cloth ones themselves. White Flame's mask, though—it was supposed to be something to see. Embedded all over with the tiniest diamonds, like little stars covering her face."

Madeleine bit her lip. Myron was still looking down at the paper, pencil in hand. Coming up with the perfect design, no doubt. But there was a part of her he knew nothing about. "They called me Cinderella," she said slowly, watching for his reaction.

He put the pencil down and looked up at her, but he didn't seem nearly as surprised as she had expected. "I thought so," he said. His eyes were on her scars but not in a cruel way, not like he was horrified. Just looking. "I remembered hearing a girl called by that name got burnt bad at Autumn Festival last year. It's not as bad as I'd have expected though, from what I heard about it. You were lucky."

She took in a breath and touched the scars, her fingers brushing against her cheek and down her neck. The scars continued down after that, a few on her arm and more on her side and right leg: all of them red and angry. But she was still alive. Still walking and moving. She could do everything she did before. She was lucky, she supposed, but it didn't often feel like it.

"Why don't you tell me more about it? I'll work on your design," Myron said. His voice was soft and kind. It was something she tried to avoid talking and thinking about, but today it seemed that she couldn't avoid it. Myron wanted to hear, and she needed to talk.

She let out her breath in a long sigh. "I was going to be White Flame, if my last dance had been perfect. I had all the other colors of roses pinned to my skirt. But the rest of my clothes were gray. That was how I got my name." She felt the corners of her mouth pull into an involuntary smile. "When I danced, it was like I was the fire. We were inseparable. I knew where the flames would be, and I never missed a step. Twirling and leaping over the fire… Those were the best parts of my life. I didn't care about anything else."

When she stopped talking, Myron looked up at her. He had a smile on his face, but he covered the paper with his hand. "Well, I think you've given me an idea for your mask, Madeleine. Cinderella's mask."

"I'm not going to dance again," she said, feeling that she had to tell him that. This mask he was making wouldn't change anything. It couldn't erase that fall.

Myron merely shrugged. "Even so, the mask is yours. Someday, you may change your mind. Perhaps you won't ever return to fire dancing or attend any balls, but someday you may want to dance again, for yourself. With this mask, no one will know you. And if you never do wear it but keep it tucked away somewhere, it's still yours. A gift. From me to you."

Madeleine felt her throat swell as he made his speech. He was kind to her, though he hardly knew her. Maybe kinder than anyone ever had been. "Thank you, Myron," she said, laying a hand on his across the table. He laid his other hand on top and squeezed hers gently. "Thank you."


	18. Chapter 18

Another installment! This one takes a bit of a break from Ivan and Madeleine, but they'll be back again next time! Thanks to everyone still reading, and keep reviewing!

* * *

Rafe rode through the land near the Luck Estate, spurring his horse to go faster and faster. The reins were loose in his hands, and he grinned as the wind swept his hair from his face. Riding still felt like freedom, even if nothing else did. He'd been angry when he started out searching for Lord Luck, and he was still angry, but riding loosened him up. He felt good again, relaxed. At least until he spotted Lord Luck on his own horse at the corner of a field, watching the tenant farmers in their planting.

He stiffened as he pulled back on his left rein, driving his horse toward the man. When he came to a stop, Lord Luck glanced at him with a small frown.

"What do you want, Rafe?" Lord Luck asked. "This isn't a day we typically meet." Normally, his voice was smooth and controlled, but today he only sounded irritated. Before Rafe could answer, he went on, "Madeleine didn't come report to me on her day off. Do you know anything about that?"

Rafe shook his head and then almost laughed but managed to hold it in. Was Madeleine's absence what he was so upset about? Well, the man deserved to see that he didn't control everything. "I'm afraid I don't keep track of Madeleine's comings and goings. She's not my daughter, after all. I suppose she's just enjoying her life apart from the rest of you."

Lord Luck glared at him. "Madeleine has no life to enjoy. I have an agreement with her, and if she does not keep to its terms, I have every right to take away her job at the castle and throw her into the streets."

He spoke with an intensity that surprised Rafe, but then he recalled just what Madeleine's life was like with Lord Luck in it and gave a short chuckle. "Perhaps she'd be better off that way," he couldn't help but retort.

Lord Luck stared at him and then spoke in the voice Rafe was more used to—calm, controlled, and dangerous. "Well, before she makes any hasty decisions about leaving, she would do well to remember that I am in possession of numerous documents recording her activities as a spy observing crown prince—ample evidence to convict her of treason."

Rafe pursed his lips then. That was true enough. Those records of Madeleine's conversations with Ivan could be turned in, and there would be no proof of who she was working with. Lord Luck would still be free to conduct his business, but Madeleine would be a criminal. "I'll pass that information along to her," he said. He wondered if Lord Luck had similar evidence against him. He hadn't given him anything written, but the man could probably come up with something if he set his mind to it.

"There's no need," Lord Luck said in reply. He was watching the farmers again, eying his land. "I'll be at the castle for a meeting tomorrow. I'll see to it that she hears from me herself."

That sounded rather ominous, but Rafe merely shrugged. "As you wish." He watched Lord Luck's face a moment longer, feeling more nervous about what he had to say after witnessing the man's anger against Madeleine. "I came to talk to you about our own agreement," he said finally. He opened his mouth to go on, but Lord Luck stopped him.

"Then perhaps you would like to do so away from listening ears," he said, inclining his head toward the farmers.

Rafe glanced at the field. Everyone seemed far enough away that they weren't likely to hear, but he supposed Lord Luck was right. It was better to be on the safe side. He nodded, and Lord Luck swung down from his horse, tethering her to the fence and giving a brief wave to the workers. Rafe did the same, and then followed Lord Luck away into a small grove of trees.

Once they were clearly away from anyone who might be eavesdropping, Lord Luck stopped walking and turned to face him. "What did you want to say?" he asked.

Rafe hesitated before speaking. He was worried, because nothing was going right anymore. All he wanted was Blair back, and despite Lord Luck's promises, that wasn't happening. But Lord Luck was unpredictable, and he didn't know what would happen if he brought the subject up. He pursed his lips together for a moment, then forced himself to relax, pushing his shoulders back and stretching his neck from side to side. He had nothing to be afraid of. Hardly over a week ago, he turned Lord Luck's face black and blue with bruises, for what happened to Blair at the riot. They were gone now—a pity, but the memory was still fresh in his fingers.

"Well?" Lord Luck asked then, crossing his arms over his chest. "Did you have something to say or not?"

Rafe gave a thin smile. "I heard from Ivan that he's to be engaged in two months. They're planning a grand ball to announce it. He's not sure who he'll marry yet, but apparently he's planning to spend more time with Blair. He sent out some invitation to her yesterday. You said that if I helped you, you would help me—by stopping them from being together. You also said no one would be hurt in the riot, and Blair was nearly trampled to death. I'm beginning to doubt that you're very true to your word."

Lord Luck's face was unreadable, but after a moment the corner of his mouth lifted into a smile. He reached into his overcoat and produced a square sheet of paper with gold around the edges and words written in a fine black script. "I suppose you mean this invitation," Lord Luck said, beginning to read, "to Her Lady Blair of the Luck Estate, in the village of Saimes, an invitation to join His Highness the crown prince for an afternoon ride through the countryside, on the fourteenth day of the month." Rafe started at the back of the paper, his eyes tracing the gold lining. The fourteenth day of the month was in five days. She'd need to reply soon. But Lord Luck had the invitation. Blair did not. "It came yesterday, while they were all out walking. I've been withholding it, as part of our deal."

He looked a bit smug, but Rafe didn't care. This was something, at least, something that would keep Blair away from Ivan at least for a little while. Though, it wasn't a very permanent solution. "All right," he said, keeping his voice controlled, to not let on that he was pleased—beyond pleased, he thought maybe he could hope again, "but that won't keep Ivan away forever. If she doesn't respond, they'll just send more invitations."

"Not necessarily," Lord Luck said, putting the invitation back in his coat. "Ivan does not seem particularly sure of himself. Perhaps he'll think she's lost interest."

Rafe rose one eyebrow skeptically. Ivan might think so, but that didn't change the fact that he had to marry someone, and since Blair had shown some interest, it was more likely that he'd end up pursuing her regardless of any doubts he had about it.

Lord Luck caught Rafe's eye as he straightened his coat, the invitation tucked safely inside. "I realize that this perhaps does not seem like enough to you. The love of your life is being swept away and all you can do is watch. My assistance is meager at best." Rafe frowned at him. Lord Luck made it all sound rather dramatic—and a bit more pathetic than he felt it was. "But the fact is that I can only do so much. I cannot control Blair's feelings for you or anyone else. If she receives invitations from the prince herself, I cannot stop her from accepting them. I am trying to help you, as you are trying to help me, but there are never any guarantees in life. Not everything can be controlled."

Rafe squared his jaw and looked away at the trees, the green needles branching out in all directions. Lord Luck was right, but it wasn't what he wanted to hear. He wanted success guaranteed. He wanted Blair to love him again and to be done with all this political entanglement. But nothing was ever that easy anymore. He looked back at Lord Luck and saw that the man's face was set in hard, determined lines. Lord Luck might say that not everything could be controlled, but that certainly didn't keep him from trying. "All right," Rafe said at last. "What happens now, then? You had your riot. What comes next?"

Lord Luck drew a long breath. "Riots will continue across Wyndl to create a state of unrest. You will keep talking to Ivan. Try to convince him that the people want to take over Aschare, that it's best for them. If necessary, we will stage an attack."

Rafe had a sinking feeling in his stomach, like something very heavy had settled deep inside him. "You mean attack our own people and blame it on Aschare?" he asked slowly. It wasn't much of a question. He knew that was what Lord Luck meant, and he wanted no part in it.

"If the royal family will not agree to overtake Aschare unprovoked, then we must provoke them," Lord Luck said. He made it sound so simple, so formulaic.

"But you're talking about our own people!" Rafe said, his voice raised to a shout. He had to fight at least a little, however useless it might be. Lord Luck was wrong. Usually, he didn't put much stock in right and wrong, but this was black and white. "I thought you wanted what's best for Wyndl. Do you really think this is it?"

Lord Luck looked at him with narrowed eyes. He seemed bored and irritated, like he didn't want to explain what he'd already planned out in his head. "We would attack one of the small villages, near the border. Set fire, raise panic, and leave. A small affair, for the greater good."

Rafe pursed his lips together. "I don't like it," he said. An understatement if there ever was one. He wanted out before it ever got that far. Attacking villages was too serious. Talking to Ivan, seeking out his opinions on taking over Aschare was something he could handle. It didn't feel like anything treasonous, anything wrong. It wouldn't necessarily come to anything. But attacking villages… he'd have to win Blair back before it ever came to that.

Lord Luck only looked at him. "The decision isn't up to you."

"And if the king and Ivan still won't plan anything against Aschare, even after that?" he asked.

"Then they're both fools," Lord Luck said, "and Wyndl will need a better leader."

Rafe swallowed. He didn't want to know any more, but he couldn't keep himself from asking, "You'd kill them?"

Lord Luck turned to look into the trees. "Someone would,' he said. Nothing in his face changed. His features were smooth and relaxed, like he was so numb even murder couldn't faze him. "The people would be outraged. A revolt would rise up, and it would need a leader." He looked at Rafe then, and Rafe turned away as he kept speaking, "Blair is smart, Rafe, and she won't waste her tears on a fallen regime. She'll move on to whatever comes next."

For a moment, Rafe allowed himself to imagine what it would be like to be a king—controlling armies, with more servants than he knew what to do with, dividing up Aschare with Blair at his side. Lord Luck had mentioned this before when he came to Rafe's estate, just after the war. It all seemed more real now, like something that could actually happen. But Blair was the only part that could ever be worth it. He hated politics. He'd be a pawn king, doing whatever Lord Luck bid him. "I don't want that," he said, looking Lord Luck in the eye.

"It will be some time before it's a possibility. Perhaps it never will be. Though, a decision should be made by autumn. If the people spend a winter in peace, they'll forget they ever wanted anything else. They'll become accustomed to life under the royal family. If Ivan or his father cannot make a decision to break the peace treaty by autumn… well, the ball seems like a decent occasion for an uprising."

Rafe disagreed. A ball did not seem like a decent occasion for an uprising to him. Balls were for dancing, socializing, kissing in corners. Not uprisings. But he kept his thoughts to himself. If he knew Ivan like he thought he did, nothing he said would ever make the prince move against his father to overtake Aschare, and the king wanted peace more than anything else. That meant all this talk of burning down villages and forming revolts was almost certain to become a reality, and he wanted to get far away from here before any of it happened. Which meant he had two months to make Blair fall in with him again.

Lord Luck was still watching him, and finally he took a breath and spoke. "If there's nothing else, I think I'll try to see Blair, before it's too late." He glanced at the sky, where the sun was slowly moving toward the horizon, though the time of day was not all he meant.

"Certainly," Lord Luck said, glancing up as well. "I have other fields to oversee before the day is over."

They walked back to their horses, and Rafe untethered his quickly before swinging himself up into the saddle. He rose his hand for a brief wave to Lord Luck and then kicked his horse into a gallop toward the road. It felt like time was racing far ahead of him, and it was all he could do to try and keep up.

* * *

Blair let her fingers rest from her embroidery and looked down to examine the stitches. They were straight and uniform, which brought a sense of satisfaction. She rarely had the patience for embroidery, but she was getting better. Her mother, bent over her own sewing on the other side of the room, would be pleased. At least, she hoped so.

On the settee, Adelle had given up on embroidery half an hour ago in favor of reading, but now she put down her book and looked at Blair. "Do you think you're really going to marry him?" she asked, and Blair felt her cheeks blush.

"Who?" she asked, though of course there was only one man Adelle could be speaking of. Well—there was only one man now, anyway. A year ago Adelle might have meant someone quite different, but Blair was much better off without him.

"Prince Ivan," Adelle said. "I was thinking how it all seems very romantic, marrying a prince, but then you'll have to be a queen someday. Do you think you'll like it?"

Blair saw that Edith had looked up now and was watching for an answer. She looked down, away from her mother's eyes. It was true that she hadn't given much thought to being a queen. She knew it would happen, but she was more focused on Ivan himself and on him taking her away from here, having everything she wanted and being able to give Adelle and her mother all that they needed. But being queen meant much more than that. "I don't think it's something you like or dislike," she said at last, carefully. "It's just something you do. If Prince Ivan wants to marry me, then I'll be his queen gladly."

"It's not just something you do," Edith said then, breaking into the conversation. Her eyes were on Blair, and her back was straight in her chair. "I agree that it's not something you like or dislike, but it is something you'll have to become if you marry Prince Ivan—something worth considering first. You'd have great responsibilities as queen, Blair, and serious decisions to make."

Blair said nothing. She sometimes had the feeling that her mother didn't want her to marry Prince Ivan, didn't think it was a suitable match for her. But he was the prince, the best match she could make! Didn't her mother want that for her? And didn't she see that if Blair married him, they could all get out of poverty? Lord Luck had squandered their money, but if she married Ivan, she'd have enough for all of them.

"You know, when the army stayed at Shinsworth during the war, I talked to Prince Thaddeus a few times," Adelle started. "I was only fourteen, but he talked to me like I was someone important. I asked him once if he liked being a prince, and he told me that he wasn't sure, because he never got to do anything for himself. Everything he did was always about his duty to his people. I imagine it would be even more so for a queen."

"I'm sure it would," Edith agreed in her soft voice.

Blair did not respond to either of their comments. The word 'duty' grated on her nerves. When her mother first married Lord Luck, she told Blair it was their duty to come to Saimes, their duty to be obedient and respectful. But that first year, all Blair wanted was to scream. She hated it so much here, away from the mountains, away from her own, familiar room, away from everything that reminded her of her father and home. Visits from Rafe were her only comfort then—not that they were a frequent occurrence. He was always off doing whatever gave him the most amusement. Sometimes that meant coming to see her. Often it didn't. "And what did you say to Prince Thaddeus then?" she asked her sister, to take her mind off Rafe and everything else.

"I told him I thought it would be nice to be royalty," Adelle said, giving a small smile. "Because then it would be your job to help people, and you'd always feel useful. He said I'd make a fine princess. And then he gave me a flower. Just a daisy, but I thought he was so kind."

Blair watched her sister's face with some skepticism. This was just the sort of sentimental memory Adelle always clung to. But as she looked at her sister's gentle smile, glowing as the light hit her face, she thought that maybe it wasn't such a bad thing. Adelle was a young woman now, and she was beautiful, and she wasn't ever angry. In spite of everything their family had gone through, Adelle always remembered something to be happy about. Those memories were in the past, though, and the world was moving forward. Blair sometimes worried that Adelle couldn't grasp that. "I suppose you want to marry Prince Ivan yourself then, to be a princess like he said," she teased, so her sister wouldn't take herself quite so seriously

Adelle laughed as she glanced at Blair. "No, I don't think we'd make a very good match. Prince Ivan needs someone stronger, like you."

Blair smiled, but as she looked down at the embroidery in her lap again, there was an odd, unsettling feeling in her chest—something like fear. She always had to be the strong one, especially after her father died. Her mother was crippled with grief, and Adelle was—well, Adelle. Her younger sister was never going to take care of any of them. Things just kept getting worse and worse when her mother married Lord Luck. Blair felt trapped, and all their money was disappearing, but now there was finally something she could do. She could marry the crown prince, and everything would get better. Only, what if she wasn't strong enough to win him? What if she wasn't strong enough to be queen?

"But you still have a choice, Blair." Her mother's voice pierced through her panicked thoughts. "Whether you want that sort of marriage or not is up to you. There's nothing wrong with not wanting it."

Blair forced a laugh as she looked up. "He's the prince, Mother. Why wouldn't I want to marry him?"

Edith turned her gaze to the window a moment, seeming to collect her thoughts before speaking. "I just want to be sure that you truly consider what a marriage to the prince would mean. It is not a choice to be made in haste. Even if it seems like the best option, that doesn't necessarily mean it is. I hope you get to know him better before you decide anything for certain."

"He hasn't asked me anything yet," Blair said. "I haven't even seen him since the day of the riot." She gave a small frown. She wanted her mother to be happy for her, proud of her, but all she sounded was worried. And all this talk of marrying Prince Ivan reminded her of just how far away that goal was. She couldn't forget the way he looked at Madeleine when they were both here, the way they talked so freely. Of course he forgot her completely when Lord Luck had him sit down with the rest of them, but it still bothered Blair. The two of them were together at the castle, and who knew what happened between them there?

There was a rapping sound on the front door then, and they heard Lane's footsteps treading down the hall to answer it. They all waited, and a few moments later, the door opened. "Sir Rafe Thornton is here," Lane said. "He wishes to see Lady Blair. Shall I bring him in?"

"I don't want to see him," Blair said quickly, her voice cutting through the silence of the room.

Edith glanced at her. "That's not kind of you, Blair. He helped ensure your safety during the riot and came to find the rest of us. Let him in, Lane."

Lane bowed to her as he left, and Blair felt her face flame. It wasn't fair of her mother to go against her wishes like that and take Rafe's side over hers. Rafe may have helped in the riot, but that didn't mean they were suddenly friends again. When he appeared in the room a moment later, she kept her eyes on her the floor and didn't greet him.

"Good afternoon, Rafe," she heard her mother say in a bright, smiling voice. "It's good to see you again. I trust you are well?"

"Yes, thank you, Lady Edith," he said, "and Adelle, it's nice to see you." She could feel his eyes turn to her, but she didn't look up. "I was wondering if I could talk to Blair alone," he said then.

"That's not necessary," she said, eyes snapping up look at him. "Anything you have to say to me you can easily say in front of Adelle and my mother." She pursed her lips as she looked into his dark eyes, fixed on her and pleading to speak in earnest. Why did he have to keep coming back like this? Nothing he said was ever true. She knew she meant nothing to him. He'd just leave again, like always.

"Blair," her mother said, in a soft, soothing voice, but before she went on, Blair interrupted.

"Fine," she said, looking back into Rafe's eyes, eyes as dark as night in the mountains back at home. She would talk to him, only because he was so familiar to her, because his lithe frame reminded her of days gone by. "But talk fast, Rafe. I don't have all day." She kept her eyes on him as her mother and Adelle rose and left the room. In the corner of her eye, she saw Adelle craning her neck back, trying to see what would happen. Finally, the door closed, and they were alone. "Well?" she said.

He hesitated a moment, rubbing the back of his neck. His brow furrowed as he tried to sort out what to say, and then he shrugged to himself. "Blair, I love you," he said. "And I thought you loved me too, but now you'll hardly even talk to me. All you seem to want is Prince Ivan, and I don't know why. I don't know what to do anymore. I know I didn't write to you when I was away, and I'm sorry, but that hardly seems to constitute completely cutting me out of your life."

His voice was desperate. Indignant, really, like he just couldn't believe she wouldn't want him anymore. Well, she had her reasons. Not writing was the last straw, but he'd never acted like he really cared. Maybe she'd only realized it now, but that didn't make it less true. She was better off without Rafe Thornton. "Is that all you have to say?" she asked finally.

He flung his hands up in the air in frustration. "Blair, why are you doing this? What happened to you?"

Of course it was all her fault. He'd never take the blame for anything himself. He was always like that, even back when they got along most of the time. They always had their arguments, but he could never admit to being wrong about anything.

"If something happened to make you think you had to marry Ivan, Blair, it's not true." He moved closer to her now and took one of her hands in his.

She jerked it away and stood up, forcing him to step back from her. "All that happened is that I realized what I wanted, and it's not you. I wish you could get that through your thick head already!"

He went to stand by window then, looking out. His eyebrows were pinched together in a frown, but something about his mouth made him seem more sad than angry. She took a few deep breaths as silence settled over the room. For a moment, she was sorry for shouting, sorry because he used to be her best friend who she kissed one day and then couldn't ever seem to kiss quite enough. But then… her father died, and everything changed so fast.

"What do you see in him?" he asked then, turning to face her with a deeper frown.

She stiffened. "I don't know what you mean."

He crossed his arms, a skeptical look coming onto his face. "I mean Ivan, Blair. You're chasing him like a hound on the hunt, and I don't understand it. You looked bored next to him at Gathering Day, you know that? Enjoying the attention, certainly, but bored of your escort."

"I wasn't bored," she said defensively, though truthfully, perhaps there had been a moment of boredom. She just couldn't understand why the prince had so much trouble talking sometimes. But what did it matter? He was still the prince, the best match there was. "And I'm not chasing him. I can't help it if we get along well, and he's actually kind to me, unlike some people I know."

Rafe squared his jaw. "Have you heard from him, since the riot?" he asked.

She broke eye contact with him then, twisting her fingers together in front of her. "Well—no. But I'm sure I'll hear from him soon."

He gave a short, mocking laugh. "Well, if you're so sure."

She frowned a moment, looking at the floor, and then straightened her back so she would stand at her full height, raising her head high in an effort to appear dignified. "In any case, it's not fair for you to come here and tell me you love me, but when I don't feel the same way, all you do is mock and insult me for the remainder of your visit. That's not love, Rafe. I wish you would just go."

His smile faltered then, until his whole face looked crestfallen. He did not meet her eyes as he spoke in a low voice. "Blair, I do love you, and I'm sorry that I don't always do a good job of showing it. I just wish you would believe me. I don't think you'll be happy with Ivan." His eyes sought hers then, accusing once again. "When you're with him, it's like you put on a completely different personality. It's not who you are. You can't live like that."

She cut into his speech with a disbelieving laugh. For a moment, she'd almost felt sorry again, but now he was insulting her again. He didn't think she was cut out to marry Ivan, to be a princess or a queen, but she'd show him she was more than capable. And she'd be happy doing it. "Just go, Rafe." she said.

He stayed where he was a moment and then started toward the door. Before he reached it, he turned around again. "Blair, I'm sorry," he said. "But I wish you'd be sorry too. I wanted to marry you. That was my plan, ever since the first day you kissed me. It still is. I'm not giving up."

He waited by the door a moment, watching for some reaction, but she refused to meet his eyes, looking at everything but him. Finally, he opened the door and left. She listened to the sound of his footsteps down the hall and the front door opening. Then he was gone. She took a deep breath in and out, and then Adelle and her mother were there again, asking her what happened.

"Nothing happened," she said. "He came to talk, so we talked."

"We heard shouting," Adelle said, "and he certainly didn't stay very long."

Blair looked at her sister, blue eyes eager for information to latch onto. She shook her head. Her arms were shaking.

"You know, I always thought you'd end up marrying him," Adelle went on, the words bubbling out of her lips like they'd never stop. "You two spent so much time together. You argued a lot, but you still seemed happy. I would have liked him as a brother."

She couldn't take it. "Will you be quiet, Adelle, for once in your life?" Her voice came out louder than she meant it to. It was just that she always thought she'd marry him too. It was her plan as well as his, but now everything was different. She went back to her chair at the other end of the room and sat down, resting her head on her hand, elbow propped against the armrest. She hated this. Hated that whenever she thought she was done and moving on, he had to come back to see her, and she could never sort out her feelings once and for all. Not that it mattered. She'd already made her decision. He disappointed her one too many times, but then why did it still hurt so much?

She felt her mother's hand on her shoulder, the touch light but comforting. "Blair, I've always liked Rafe and trusted him, but you seem quite upset by his presence today. If he did anything to hurt you…"

"He didn't," she said, pulling away from her mother as she shifted in her chair. It wasn't that simple. Maybe Rafe had hurt her, but she'd hurt him just as bad. At least he was gone now, and she wouldn't have to think about it. She was going to marry Ivan. That was all that mattered.

There were a few moments of silence, and all she heard was the sound of her own breathing. Then footsteps echoed down the hall again and Lord Luck entered the room, scanning each of their faces briefly. "Good evening, everyone. I saw Rafe Thornton leaving as I came in. He seemed rather agitated. Was that your doing, Blair?"

Blair looked at her stepfather and said nothing. If there was anyone she had more anger built up against than Rafe, it was him.

"He just came for a visit," Edith said quickly, trying to make the situation more comfortable for everyone. "He and Blair disagreed about a few things, but I'm sure it'll mend itself. How were the fields you were overseeing today?"

Lord Luck barely glanced at his wife. "They were fine," he said, before turning back to Blair. "I suppose there is little point in keeping Rafe around when you can have a prince, after all." He gave a short laugh as he reached into his jacket. "This came for you yesterday, Blair, while you were out. It must have slipped my mind until now." He came closer and held out a square paper with gold lining the edges—something from the castle?

She reached up and took it from him, scanning the black lettering quickly. When she was finished, she smiled. "It's an invitation," she said, glancing up at the rest of them, "to go riding with Prince Ivan in five days. Of course I'll go."

Lord Luck gave a smile as he glanced at Edith. "There, see. She doesn't need anyone else, if she has the prince."

For once, she agreed with her stepfather about something, but her mother seemed less agreeable. She did not smile at her husband, and her lips were set in a straight line. "That decision is up to her. Just because the prince is the highest in societal rankings does not mean he is the best match for Blair."

Lord Luck laughed again. "My dear, do you not think your daughter has it in her to be queen? I should think her mother would want the best for her."

"That's not what I said," her mother replied. For the first time, Blair noticed how square her mother's jaw was when she spoke to Lord Luck. She'd always thought of her mother as the perfect, obedient wife, but today something was different. "I do want the best for my daughter. I'm just not sure this is it."

Now Lord Luck looked a little indignant. "How could the prince not be the best match? Think of the influence she would have. And doesn't she look happy with this invitation?" He waved his arm toward her, and Edith glanced at her briefly. Blair looked away. She didn't like being argued over like this. She could make her own choices. But she looked back at the two of them when Lord Luck spoke again. "Don't you want her to have what she wants?"

Her mother's chest rose and fell as she took a deep breath. "Influence and status are not everything. They always seem like the best, most obvious choice at first, but they are not always worth it in the end. I would ask that you do not press the matter on her, nor discourage her from other options. She is my daughter, Arthur, not yours."

Blair watched Lord Luck's eyes widen and felt that her own were doing the same. This was the most biting speech she'd ever heard her mother make toward Lord Luck. "I have her best interests at heart," he said, but her mother's expression did not soften.

"Hers or yours?" Edith asked. Her voice was soft but unrelenting, in a way Blair had never heard her speak.

Lord Luck's face was shocked for a moment but he quickly regained his composure and laughed off the question. "My dear, what could I gain from your daughter marrying Prince Ivan? I am already in good standing with the king. There is nothing I want from this situation. I only think that if she is presented with such a match, she ought to take it."

Edith looked him in the eyes, her back straight and head held high. "I would rather discuss this elsewhere," she said, her tone smooth and calm once again.

Lord Luck stared at her a moment. "Fine," he said and turned toward the door. The two of them left the room with rhythmic footsteps that carried down the hallway and up the stairs.

Blair looked at Adelle, who was looking back at her. "What was that all about?" Adelle asked, and Blair shook her head.

"I don't know." There was silence for a long moment, and then voices from upstairs. Shouting voices. Blair couldn't make out distinct words, but for her voice to carry down here, their mother had to have been shouting louder than they'd ever heard her. Blair strained to hear what they were saying. Something about money, her mother said. A quieter retort from Lord Luck, and then her mother's voice again, "All you do is lock yourself in that room, and… only for the money."

And then Lord Luck, loudest yet, "You want me to your husband, Edith? Is that what you want from me? I may have married you under the law, but you will never be my wife." Silence followed his last remark. Blair glanced at Adelle, and Adelle bit her lip, but but neither of them said a word. Of course, Blair always thought Lord Luck only married her mother for the money. They were never going to love each other like her mother and her father did, but she knew her mother at least wanted it to be amiable—for them to be involved in each other's affairs and get along well. Now he'd crushed all those hopes. Money must have been the only thing he was after.

That didn't explain everything, though. Her mother seemed to think Lord Luck was pushing her to marry the prince for his own purposes. Did that mean more money, since he wasted all of theirs? But what was he doing with all of it? It wasn't as if he was buying anything much. They lived like paupers. But where did it all go?

A door slammed in the hallway above and footsteps followed. Blair jumped to her feet and raced toward the door. She ignored Adelle's question of what she was doing and rushed to the staircase, looking up in time to see Lord Luck step into his study and shut the door behind him, a key turning in the lock. He spent almost all his time there, and he never allowed anyone in. They knocked if they wanted to talk to him, and he came to the doorway. What was he hiding in there? Was the secret to what he did with all his time and where all their money went hiding inside that room?

As she stared at the wooden door, she squared her shoulders in a sudden determination. First, that she would marry Ivan and get her mother and Adelle away from Lord Luck. And second, that she would find a way into his study and find out what his secret was.


	19. Chapter 19

**Hello everyone! This chapter has an extra special three scenes in it! Get excited, because I think you will be a bit surprised with the last one. Hopefully pleasantly so. Review and tell me what you think!**

* * *

Ivan sat with a straight back in his chair in the meeting room, his whole body tense as he listened to the discussion. They were deciding whether the young men of the country should be required to undergo basic battle training. He was supposed to have something to say on the subject, because he was a young man who had seen many battles, and because he'd been having lessons to teach him how to talk. But if anything, the lessons only made him more nervous, because now there was a greater expectation that he should be able to speak well. His failure to do so would be even more of a disappointment.

Just breathe,he told himself, and listen. There was no reason he had to speak right away. He could take time to collect his thoughts. He glanced farther down the table where Rafe was sitting with his elbows leaned against the table. Rafe had been coming to more meetings recently, though he rarely said much. Today he just looked bored. But he was allowed to do that. He wasn't a prince. Ivan turned his attention back to the discussion. The meeting was half over now, and he still hadn't managed to come up with anything coherent to say.

"The answer to this question is obvious," Lord Kent said from down the table. "I don't know why it's even up for debate. If we want to be seen as a strong country, we need to have an army at our disposal, whether or not we intend to use it."

"We do have an army," General Wescott replied from his place next to the king, something he had said multiple times now.

Lord Kent dismissed the general's comment with a wave of his hand. "Yes, we have an army, but you yourself admitted that the men who commit themselves full time to defense of the king are few. They are not enough to take to war. Just look at what happened last time. We were utterly unprepared for the Ascharan invasion, and we faced the consequences."

Beside him, Ivan heard a deep sigh, but when he glanced over, his father's face was as smooth and calm as always, the perfect king.

"I agree with Lord Kent," Lord Luck said then. "The solution seems simple. Each year, the youths of a certain age, say between fifteen and twenty, will attend a two month training session to prepare them to fight. And the older men who are still fit for war will attend a shorter session to refresh their skills. Both sessions can be held during the winter, so they don't interfere with the planting season. We may as well begin this year. As Lord Kent said, we don't want to be caught unprepared again."

King Nicholas glanced at the general. "Your thoughts, General Wescott?"

The general glanced at the king and then at the rest of them. "I agree that we don't want to be caught off guard again, but I think your plan seems a bit excessive, Lord Luck. Having a session for all able bodied men each year would require intense planning and resources I'm not sure we have at the moment. I think perhaps the people of Wyndl could use a rest, and since we have signed a peace treaty with the only country directly bordering our own, we can afford to give them one."

"That is my feeling as well," King Nicholas jumped in before anyone could say anything else. "It is my intention to promote peace, and I fear that beginning a new training program this year would not serve that purpose. I want my people to feel safe, and requiring their fifteen year old boys to prepare for battle would only remind them of our losses. And, given the recent riots, I do not want to do anything to encourage more eagerness for war. I am concerned that training this year would only lead to further warmongering."

"Prince Ivan trained for war when he was younger than fifteen, didn't he?" Lord Luck asked. His eyes were on Ivan, and his mouth curled in a thin smile. "What are his thoughts on the matter?"

Ivan felt all eyes turn to him, and he knew there was no escaping it. Now was his time to speak, and he needed sound intelligent and wise, confident in himself. "I—um…" Not a good start, but that didn't mean it was all over. He was allowed to pause. He looked at his father who was watching him along with everyone else. He wanted his father to be proud of him. "War was… a very different time. Things were… not like they are now." He tried to think of something more to say, but his mind was entirely blank, and they were all still staring. How did his father ever speak during meetings, let alone speak so well?

General Wescott took over then, drawing the attention away from Ivan. "I think what the prince means to say is that during war, training our young men was a necessity, but that necessity is gone now. There is something to what Lord Kent and Lord Luck said about being prepared, but I think a general training every five years or so for men not employed in the army would be more than enough. Do you agree, your highness?"

It took Ivan a moment to realize the question was directed at him. Then he was again intensely aware of everyone watching him, and he started to panic. But it was an easy question. It didn't require a long answer. "That sounds reasonable," he managed to say without stuttering.

"Your majesty, I hate to disagree with our trusted general and your son," Lord Luck said, "but I can't help but think they're ignoring something we cannot afford to ignore—the riots. You mentioned yourself that the people are restless and antsy for war. Wouldn't it be better to bring them together to train, united with that energy, rather than letting them go on with those attitudes in secret and risk more situations like Gathering Day, or worse? Surely the possibility of a revolt has at least crossed your mind."

"I appreciate your concern, Lord Luck," said the king, "but I disagree. I think training our men this winter would only increase their hunger for war. That is not what our country needs now. We signed a peace treaty, and I do not intend to break it."

"But surely mere training doesn't lead to rebellion. Training is preparation; it doesn't turn men into murderers. Prince Ivan and Prince Thaddeus both trained for war from a young age. Surely you agree, your highness, that mere training does not make you some sort of bloodthirsty killer?"

Ivan felt the palms of his hands grow wet and slippery as he stared across the table at Lord Luck's polite expression. Why was the question directed at him? And was it only his imagination, or had Lord Luck glanced over at him when he first said the word murderer? Did he know something? His heart was racing now, and everyone was staring, wanting to know—did his training make him into a murderer? Well, he'd killed his twin brother; they could decide for themselves. But he couldn't say that. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he knew he must look guilty, but they were all still waiting for an answer. He wrung his hands together under the table. "I… my brother and I, we… we always wanted to be soldiers. As soon as we started training, we wanted to be at war, but…" He gripped the table to try and stop shaking. "Our training was very good. We—battles came very naturally to us." He pursed his lips. He wasn't making any sense, but he couldn't put any of his thoughts in order.

"And was that a good thing or a bad thing?" Lord Kent asked. His spoke slowly, but his voice was forceful, irritated.

He swallowed, and his throat felt like it was filled with rough stones. "Well—I think—" He scrambled for something to say, but all he could think was that maybe it was because of the training that he killed Thaddeus. He did it so fast, like a reflex. But even that wasn't fair, because he had a choice, and he chose to kill. His fault. No one else's. He looked them all watching him and then looked down at his fingers instead, resting on the table. They were shaking—or maybe the rest of him was shaking and that was why they seemed to be moving back and forth. He blinked and behind his eyelids was blood—all the blood he'd spilled. He opened his eyes again with a sharp, gasping breath.

In the silence, he heard a whispered comment, "Some articulate prince we've got." He didn't look up to see who said it.

"I believe it would be best for us to think these points over and reconvene at a later time," the king said then. "Meeting adjourned."

A hum of quiet voices filled the room as they all began to stand, talking amongst themselves. Ivan stayed in his seat, staring at his fingers, but he only half saw them. His mind was full of that final battle. Thaddeus attacking him; Thaddeus dead. He could feel the weight of his sword in his hand just as he did then—the way it felt to thrust the blade into his brother's throat and pull it back out. The sudden lightness as it dropped from his hands. Falling to his knees on the ground. The blood—all the blood.

"Ivan."

He jumped at the sound of his father's voice and felt a hand on his shoulder

"Ivan," the king said again, letting go of his shoulder as he stood beside him, "I know these meetings aren't easy for you. You've never had to live this sort of life before, and you haven't had many lessons yet. I understand that." He paused, and Ivan stared up at him. He wasn't sure where this was going, his father's voice was serious—serious and disappointed. "I know it's difficult, but I do need you to try. You seem so distracted in all these meetings. You're not engaging in the conversation at all. If you don't know everything about an issue, you can at least ask questions and offer what experience you can. The lords are on our side, but we have to be strong enough to command their respect. That means being informed and… involved, Ivan. We need to be involved."

"I know, Father," he said, looking down. He was disappointed in himself too. He thought maybe he could get better at talking and become the sort of prince Thaddeus was, the type everyone loved. But whenever Thaddeus crossed his mind, he just got stuck there. He couldn't move forward. He couldn't change.

"I hope that after more lessons, you'll have an easier time speaking in meetings. I had hoped that you would be more prepared for this one, but I realize it will take some time. I just wish I had the feeling you were giving it your best effort."

Ivan looked up. "I am trying," he said, though he doubted his father would believe it. Of course he didn't look like he was trying when everything that reminded him of Thaddeus made his mind stop working completely.

His father watched him for a moment longer and then squeezed his shoulder again. "All right. I'm sorry if I seem harsh with you today, Ivan. These meetings aren't my favorite thing either." He released Ivan's shoulder with a smile. "I'll see you at dinner time," he said as he left the room.

Ivan stared at the door as it swung shut behind his father and then leaned his elbows on the table, pressing his forehead into his hands. He was never going to get better at speaking with Thaddeus still on his mind, and there was no way to stopping thinking about it, which meant his father would always be disappointed in him. He would always be a failure. He wondered how much longer he could go on with this secret burning in his chest and no way to put it behind him. Would it ever get any better? It certainly didn't feel like it, but he pushed himself up from the table anyway, starting slowly toward the door. Just keep going, he told himself. Keep moving forward. It was all he could do.

* * *

Madeleine stepped quietly through the hallways of the castle, leaving the laundry room down below and climbing the staircase to the next floor. She walked past the big meeting room where many lords and advisors had gathered an hour ago. The hallway was empty now, and she heard no voices as she walked past.

She wondered how the meeting had gone. She knew Ivan had been having speaking lessons lately, to help him be more comfortable in meetings. Back when they were friends, he always talked about how much he hated them. She hoped this one went better for him, though she supposed she had no reason to care. It wasn't like he cared about her.

As she rounded the corner, something moved in the corner of her eye, and she jumped as a figure stepped out from the shadows. When she saw who it was, she froze.

"Madeleine, I had hoped I might run into you," her father said. "I was just here for a meeting, but I thought I would try to catch you before I go."

She stared at him—at the way he seemed almost glad to see her, which could only mean something horrible. "I have work to do," she said, trying to sidle around him before he did anything else, but she wasn't fast enough.

His arm whipped out, and his fingers clenched her arm as he wrenched her backward. She winced as she reeled into his chest. "You didn't come report to me on your day off. That is the one thing I require of you to keep your job here. If you don't do it, I can take all of this away. You have work when I say you have work, Madeleine." His voice was quiet but menacing, a force behind each word that she'd rarely heard from him.

"What do you want?" she asked, looking up at him and tensing her body to keep herself from shaking. She wouldn't show weakness in front of him. He wouldn't get the pleasure of seeing her afraid.

"A word," he said, dropping her arm and indicting the hallway she'd come from.

She squared her shoulders and walked in that direction, trying not to think of how he could throw her in the streets, or have her tried for treason if he wanted. Her pulse drummed down in her abdomen, but she kept her face composed.

He led the way to the meeting room and opened the door, holding it for her to go first. She entered with her head held high and turned around swiftly inside, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Why didn't you come?" he asked, as the door shut behind them with a thud.

"I had nothing to report," she said, trying to match his short, expressionless tone.

His eyebrows rose in disbelief. "Really? Did you have no conversations with the prince this week?"

"No," she said, breaking eye contact. "I didn't." She hardly even saw Ivan now. She did her work in his room when he was at lessons or in meetings. It was easier that way. She stole a quick glance at her father's face. She supposed her usefulness was over now. He'd turn her out, since she had nothing more to offer him.

He still didn't look like he believed her. "That's impossible," he said finally. "You talk to him every day. About nothing very important, granted, but at least you—"

"You found your uses for it," she interrupted, sudden anger flaring inside her. She knew he'd manufactured the riot. She didn't know why, but she'd heard enough of his fight with Rafe afterward to understand that much. And besides that, every criticism against Ivan was all too familiar to her. "You took every insecurity he'd ever mentioned to me and flung it back at him during the riot. Don't pretend you didn't."

Her father rolled his eyes. "The prince's insecurities are obvious to everyone. Don't overestimate yourself. People said what they thought. Now why haven't you talked to him?"

Madeleine looked down again. There was no winning with him. She wrote her reports carefully, trying to leave out anything important, but he still found a way to use what she said, but if she tried to claim her usefulness to him, he told her it was nothing. "We had a fight," she said at last, hoping he would leave her alone once he knew the truth.

"A fight?" he repeated, letting out a short laugh. "About what? Did you make his bed the wrong way?"

She frowned at him. "No. It wasn't about anything. It just happened. It was the night after the riot, which was when I last saw you, so there was nothing more for me to say. Can I go now?"

But he was smiling again. She hated when he smiled. Maybe because it was never for her. Nothing he did was ever for her. "The night after the riot, you say? The night after you were both in my house, talking in the corner like you were the only two in the room? You had a fight after that?"

His voice feigned surprise, and she said nothing. He knew very well that wasn't all that happened that day.

When he got no response, he spoke again in a calm, cool voice. "I hope you understand why I did what I did. I suppose you were angry at me for treating you like a servant in front of him. But that is what you are, Madeleine. You are his maid. I saw the way you looked at him, and I've read the way you talk to him. I've even seen how he talks and looks at you, but you're foolish to think anything will come of it. All I did that day was show you what he really thinks of you. You may matter in private, but in public, he'll forget you were ever there."

Madeleine pursed her lips. She'd told herself the same thing enough times now. She didn't need to hear it again, not from her father, of all people. He made it sound like he was looking out for her best interests, but he wasn't. He was eighteen years too late for that.

"All I ask of you, Madeleine, is that you report on him as an uninvolved observer. I did not send you here to fall in love with him. I sent you here to gather information. Can you do that for me?"

She nodded her head. If she just agreed, he would leave, and she could figure out what to do later. Maybe run away, or maybe just stay and do what he asked. She followed the lines of his face with her eyes, the face she didn't really know at all. Maybe if she did everything he asked, he'd actually be pleased with her.

"Good," he replied. "Where did you go on your day off, then?"

She pursed her lips together, unsure whether he cared about the answer or not. It seemed easier to tell the truth than to lie. "I went to see the fire dancers," she said, her voice quiet as she watched for a response.

Something in his face tensed at her words, and he stared for a long moment. "Why? To remind yourself what you'll never be?"

She blinked and felt her breath hitch in her throat. She wasn't expecting such a harsh reaction. They'd never talked about fire dancing. She knew he saw her that day, but he never said anything. She felt a heat rising in her cheeks, spreading through her scars. "You don't know anything about it," she said then, her voice raising with each word. "I was going to be White Flame."

His brow lowered into a deep frown as his whole body stiffened, and he spat out each with word with a vehemence. "You will never be White Flame."

"You only ever saw me fall!" she screamed. "You have no right—"

"White Flame never fell," he cut in, silencing her, "and you will never be anything like her. You may as well accept that the only use you have anymore is whatever use I manage to find for you. No one else wants you, Madeleine. If you don't come see me on your next day off—"

"You don't want me either," she interrupted. The rage was mostly gone now, replaced with a sudden emptiness. "You've never wanted me."

"I want you to do what I ask," he said, speaking in long, slow syllables.

"But that's not the same thing," she said, her voice rising again. The anger was back now, but it was anger of a different sort. The anger of a lifetime worth of wrongs that she was determined to throw in his face. "You've never cared about me. Even when I was a child, you acted like I didn't exist. Now you treat me like I'm some kind of slave, and I want to know why. Why couldn't you have ever been a father to me? Could you at least explain that—why you treat your own daughter like dirt? Is that too much to ask?"

Her words met only with silence. He was stiff and unmoved. "I owe nothing to you," he said at last. "You should be happy that I gave you a house to live in and food to eat and a job here when no one else would have taken care of you."

"You sold me and kicked me out of my own home!" Her throat felt raw from screaming.

"My home," he corrected, emphasizing his ownership. "I'm leaving now. If you expect to continue here with no accusations of treason brought against you, I suggest you come see me on your next day off."

She watched as he turned and walked through the door, and then she was alone in the room. It was then that she realized she was shaking, whether from fear or anger, she couldn't tell. Part of her was glad she'd finally screamed at him, finally told him what she really thought. And she was curious about White Flame. Something changed in him when she brought it up. But mostly, she knew now that he didn't care. All those years she'd somehow hoped that his aloofness was just a mask, and somewhere behind it all he really did love her. At least now she could let that hope go, along with everything else she'd lost. He didn't care. Not enough to even tell her why.

* * *

Ivan sat up as the door opened. It was Madeleine. When she saw him, she froze and then lowered her head in a bow. "I'm sorry, your highness. I didn't think you would be here." Her voice was quiet, tired sounding. Or maybe that was only him.

He settled back against his pillows where he'd been lying almost all afternoon. "I'm not going down to dinner. I don't feel well," he said, by way of explanation. He usually wasn't here this time of day, but he couldn't bring himself to go down to dinner. To see everyone's faces staring, wondering what was wrong with him. Thaddeus's death kept happening over and over in his head, and he felt like he couldn't move. "Did you need something?" he asked when Madeleine didn't move from the doorway.

"Just your laundry, your highness," she said in the same quiet voice. She didn't raise her eyes to look at him.

"Well—carry on then," he said, waving her into the room. She closed the door behind her and came all the way in, and he watched as she moved around the room, picking up his things. He usually tried to keep his clothing in a neat pile for whoever picked it up, but this week he'd done a bad job. He felt like he was hurrying everywhere he went—to lessons and meetings and dinners, and his clothing had slowly spread all across the room. "I'm sorry," he said after a moment, "about my things being… everywhere."

She paused to glance at him, and he was glad to see her gray eyes peering at him and the brown freckles dotting her face, even her scars. At least she was familiar, and… she had been a friend. "It's fine," she said, reaching to pick up one of his shirts from a chair by the window. "How was your meeting this afternoon?" she asked after a moment.

His breath came out in a bitter laugh. "Horrible. One of the worst by far. And mostly my fault." It felt oddly good to say so—to be telling her. He watched her as she folded his things so they'd be easier to carry. A piece of her hair fell into her eyes, and she brushed it away with hurried fingers. "Madeleine," he said then, sliding toward the edge of his bed, suddenly wanting more than anything for things to be normal between them again, "I'm sorry about before, after the riot. I think… maybe I should have said something to your father. He doesn't own you, and…" He paused, not sure what to say. It seemed like Madeleine was angry with him for no real reason, and then she mocked him like he was pathetic. But he was the one to send her away, and if she wasn't going to try to make things right, he'd have to. "Anyway, I don't think ignoring each other has done much good for either of us. At least, it hasn't for me. I don't know about you, but…"

He trailed off at an odd sound from her, a bit like a hiccup, and then he realized she was crying, or about to cry. Her eyes were watery, about to spill over, and her chin was quivering. "Madeleine!" he said, jumping off the bed to go over to her. "What's wrong? Did I say something wrong? I'm sorry. I'm not good at—"

She shook her head and blinked furiously. "It's not you. It's nothing." One tear slipped down her cheek, and she quickly swiped it away and looked away from him, rearranging the clothes in her arms.

"Madeleine," he said again, "I'm on your side. We don't have to ignore each other anymore. You can tell me what's wrong. Is it your father again?"

She took a sharp breath but kept her eyes away from him. "It's nothing different," she said finally, rubbing at a speck of dirt on one of his shirts. "I just saw him today, and he was… just like he usually is. We talked about fire dancing. He was there, you know." She looked up at him with wide eyes. "He was there when I fell in the fire and got all these scars." Her hands flew to her face as his clothes dropped from her arms. "But he didn't do anything. He just stood there and watched me burn!" The tears were coming in rapid succession now, but she kept blinking and swatting at any that made it to her cheeks.

"Madeleine, I'm sorry," he said, reaching forward to put a hand on her arm, but she flinched away.

"And today I asked him—" She took another sharp breath that sounded close to a sob, "I asked him why he never cared about me. And you know what he said?" Her eyes were red and flashing even as they filled with tears, more than she could wipe away.

He shook his head slightly.

"He said he didn't owe me anything. That I should be grateful he gave me a job and somewhere to live and food to eat. That's not even an answer. And then he just left. Walked out of the room like it was nothing."

Ivan watched her and took another small step toward her. He tried to put his hand on her arm again, and this time she didn't pull away but just stared at him as the tears streamed down her face.

"He's probably right," she said after a moment. "He's my father, and if he doesn't want me… I must really be worthless." Her voice broke at the end as her shoulders shook with sobs. Her hands flew around her face, trying to wipe away tears but not succeeding at much.

"Madeleine, you're not worthless." His hand moved to her shoulder and then her back. He wasn't sure how to be comforting, but he wanted her to be all right, to know that her father was wrong. "You're the best… maid I've ever had, and you're… you're my best friend." He said this slowly, realizing for the first time that it was true. A week ago, he'd told himself he couldn't trust her, but the fact was he trusted her more than anyone.

His words only seemed to make her cry harder, so he went on, trying to say something to distract her. "I mean, in a way, you're my only friend. Except Rafe, but I'm not sure he counts. I'm not really very good at making friends, and I—"

"Will you stop talking?" she interrupted and then stepped forward, collapsing against his chest. For a moment, he went stiff. He didn't know what to do with his hands. Her arms wrapped around him, and finally he put his on her back, then pulled her closer as she kept crying. Her hair felt tickly where it brushed his face. It was odd being so close to someone, all of her pressed up against him. But it was nice, to be there for someone. He always thought of Madeleine as strong and hard, like iron. But she was just like him. She could be hurt, just like him.

When she finally pulled away to look at him, he kept his hands on her arms, near her elbows. "I'm sorry," she said, wiping at her eyes. They were still red, but there were no more tears coming. "I just—"

He shook his head. "You don't have to be sorry. Do you want to sit down?"

She hesitated a moment, and then shrugged. "I suppose."

He dropped his hands from her and walked toward his bed. He sat down at the edge, and Madeleine sat a short distance away. They looked at each other, and for a moment he wondered what he was thinking, asking her to sit down. Everything was just as awkward as it had been before she cried in his arms.

"I'm sorry too," she said after a moment, "about after the riot. I didn't mean what I said. I shouldn't have said it. I'm sorry."

He nodded. "It's all right." There was another long pause before he said, "You shouldn't listen to your father, Madeleine. You're not worthless. You're good at your job. You're kind—"

She snorted. "I'm not kind."

He looked into her gray eyes, watching him with some amusement. He gave a small smile. "You are when you want to be. Is there… anything I can do? I can talk to him, you know. Or tell my father what he's done to you, or…"

"No," she said sharply. She looked away from him, smoothing her skirt over her lap. Finally she gave a small laugh and glanced at him. "I think even the crown prince can't stop a man from disowning his daughter if he wants to. It's his business."

He looked at her and then nodded. "You don't have to see him anymore, though. You can stay here. There's no reason for you to go home on your days off, is there?"

Her mouth was tight but then she gave a small smile. "No. I suppose not." There was a pause before she gave a wider smile and a short laugh. "I'm so embarrassed, telling you all my problems you don't need to hear. Now that I've poured out my life's troubles, if you have anything to get off your chest, you might as well go ahead."

Her words were joking, but they struck a chord. His mind filled with everything he'd been hiding—Thaddeus, the lie, all the guilt. Telling her wouldn't change any of it, but somehow he wanted her to know. But what would she think of him then, if she knew he killed his own brother? And what if she told someone else? Could he really trust her?

"Ivan." Her voice called him back into the present.

"Yes?"

She gave a small shake of her head. "It's nothing. You just looked like you were going somewhere far away in your head. I didn't want to lose you."

"You haven't lost me," he said.

She gave a small smile. He thought he saw a tinge of pink blooming on her cheeks. "Well, I suppose I should get back to work," she said, starting to rise to her feet.

He stretched out a hand and caught hers, holding it in his own. "Don't go," he said, and she slowly sat back down. He took a deep breath. It was now or never. "Madeleine, if I told you something… something serious, could I trust you not to tell anyone else?"

Her eyes moved from his hand still holding hers up to his eyes. She looked confused, but she gave a slow nod. "Of course."

He nodded and took another breath, wondering where to begin. "Thaddeus didn't… when he died, it wasn't… it's not what everyone thought…" Her face was growing more and more confused. Perhaps the most obvious statement would be better. "I killed Thaddeus."

"What?" Her hand pulled away from his as she stared at him. "Ivan, what are you talking about?"

"I didn't want to," he said desperately. He could see the confusion on her face, the horror. He was murderer. She had every reason to hate him, but he had to tell her the truth. "I mean, I did, for a second. He attacked first, and then I… I didn't know what to do, and I just…"

Her expression was different now and she grabbed his hand again, giving it a tight squeeze. "Start at the beginning," she said.

He nodded and tried to fight the panic rising in his chest, all the accusing thoughts telling him she would hate him now. He was a murderer. If she wanted nothing to do with him now, she would be totally justified. "It was the final battle of the war. There was hardly anyone left standing anymore. I was watching these leaves falling, and—he came out of nowhere."

"Thaddeus?" Madeleine asked, and he nodded.

"I thought he was an Ascharan at first. When I realized it was him, I figured he must not have recognized me. It's hard sometimes, in battles, to see who you're fighting. I told him it was me, it was his brother. But he already knew. He said he should have been born first. He'd be a better king, and I was so angry." He was shaking now. Madeleine's hand was the only thing keeping him partly still. "It was self defense at first. I was just trying to stay alive. But when I saw the hole in his armor… we couldn't have gone on forever. It was either me or him. So I killed him. I stuck my sword in his throat. When I took it out, there was so much blood. So much blood, and I watched him die on the ground in front of me. I murdered him."

"Ivan—" Madeleine's voice was quiet, and she ran her fingers over his hand, but he interrupted before she could go on.

"I couldn't tell anyone. They all think he was killed by some Ascharan, but it was me. I don't know what to do anymore. Thaddeus was always a better prince. I thought I could change. Be like him, but he's all I ever think about. I miss him." His voice broke then. Everything was blurry from the tears in his eyes, and his throat felt tight and strangled. He blinked, forcing the tears out and then wiped them away with his sleeve, clearing his throat as he looked at Madeleine.

Her expression was not horrified. That was something at least. Instead she looked sad, he thought. She looked down at his hand resting on top of the bed and tighten her hold on it. "Ivan," she said, glancing back at him. Then she paused and bit her lip. "Ivan, I'm so sorry.

He looked away. "If you don't want to talk to me anymore, I understand."

When he looked back at her, her head was shaking and then she was sliding closer to him and wrapped her around his neck, pulling him closer. "It's not your fault," she said in a voice just above a whisper. "You're not a murderer, Ivan. It's not your fault."

His jaw twitched against her shoulder, and he felt his eyes prickling with tears again. He wasn't sure he believed her, but it was nice to hear someone say so after all these months. Even if nothing changed from telling her, at least he knew she didn't blame him for his crimes. At least her opinion of him was still the same.


End file.
